


a game with destiny

by mint_choco_icecream



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Disease, Hurt/Comfort, I think this counts as slow burn, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mystery, Recreational Drug Use, Sci-Fi AU, Sexual Tension, a bit of politics but not too much, futuristic royalty au, jaemin is kind of a mess, living on a space shuttle, plot heavy, renjun is done with everyone, sort of enemies to lovers but not really, they just don't like each other very much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29021805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mint_choco_icecream/pseuds/mint_choco_icecream
Summary: Prince Na Jaemin is to rule the colony aboard Space Shuttle 9.Huang Renjun is appointed as his advisor.In short, they both fuck up.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Na Jaemin, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 53





	1. renjun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mypage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypage/gifts).



> tw// minor character death
> 
> to tia: thank you so much for letting me dump all my ideas on you hehe, i would never have actually written this if it wasn't for you <3 i hope you enjoy this!
> 
> a million thanks to kennie, my absolute angel of a beta, for the incredibly helpful comments and feedback!! thank you for motivating me to keep writing!!! <3

Renjun wakes up, heart hammering against his chest and fingers clawing at his soft bed sheets. The room is almost perfectly silent, and his quick, gasping breaths echo loudly over the gentle hum of the cooling vents. Dropping his head into his shaking hands, he tries to will the image out of his mind. 

A body. He had seen a body. And that's all it was, really - a man lying face-down on bright, white tiles with dark hair fanned out around his head. His limbs are spread at awkward angles, as if he had tried to break his fall but his body froze midway through. It isn't a particularly bad nightmare by any standard, but it had felt so achingly real. Renjun's eyes blur with burning tears. He is certain of one thing: whoever the man is, or was, he's dead. 

"It's now 0535," a loud robotic voice startles him from his thoughts as the lights in his room switch on automatically. Renjun squeezes his eyes shut against the blinding light, kicking up his feet under the thick blanket and shouting, "I'm awake," miserably, even as the voice repeats instructions for him to 'rise and shine'. Huffing, he kicks his legs off the bed, dropping his feet to rest on the plush carpet and instantly silencing the voice. His ears still ring in annoyance, and he lets out a sigh, long and tired, into the chilly air.

Shifting his eyes around his room to distract himself from the nightmare, he’s quick to spot his three tablets lying awkwardly on his mostly empty desk, accompanied by a lone coffee mug that's still half filled. A testimony to his late night spent preparing, going over books and notes he already knows like the back of his hand. 

He takes a deep breath, but it’s useless in settling his nerves and speeding heart. His mind is racing, and immediately, every thought of his nightmare is replaced by the knowledge of the impending meeting in only a couple hours. Renjun already knows the time, and he’s already been reminded of his responsibilities for the day, but his eyes still flicker to his forearm out of habit. 

0537, the light flashing against his inner wrist informs him, quickly followed by a trail of neon blue letters crawling midway up his bare forearm before promptly disappearing. 

0700 Meet Prince Jaemin in Royal Study 1

As the words fade out, he's left staring at his pale skin, eyes frozen over the spot where the letters were. Today is the day he assumes his role as royal advisor. Blood rushes in his ears, the sound loud and foreboding, and Renjun digs his fingernails into his palm, forcing himself to even his breathing. 

He's ready for this, months and years of preparation just to reach this far. He _has_ to be ready for this. Even though he's shadowed the past advisor for months, attended important meetings and observed his role, today is his first one-on-one meeting with the prince, his informal initiation into the position to see how they work together. 

Renjun harbors mixed feelings for Prince Jaemin, the colony _sweetheart._

When he was younger, Renjun used to look up to him. He used to idolize the way he carried himself with confidence, as if he could do nothing wrong and as if he knew everything. Being the same age, Renjun used to look at his bright smile and want to be that happy. He used to read through every single one of his interviews with the press, and he used to lock himself into his room for hours and practice having his own interviews. Eight-year old Renjun had a slight obsession with Jaemin, and he'd wanted nothing more than to be his friend. To live a life like him, with him. 

Renjun was twenty years old when he met Jaemin for the first time, strolling into a meeting almost fifteen minutes late. A dark coat messily thrown over his dress shirt with the first couple buttons undone, a line of hickeys trailing down his collar. Renjun was just allowed to sit in that meeting, Taeil was the actual advisor and he pushed Jaemin out of the door before he even sat down. The both of them re-entered not two minutes later with Jaemin neat and tidy, his collar opened out against his neck and almost hiding the purple bruises. Renjun had looked away. 

To say Jaemin was not what he'd expected was an understatement. Renjun had thought Jaemin was the perfect prince he’d read about in the news columns, visiting hospitals and helping the less fortunate. Leading his people with confidence and determination, meeting with other nations and colonies, and at the very least, doing what he was supposed to do.  
It came as a shock to see him in action, slouching half-asleep in important meetings, leaving his advisor to do all the talking. Ignoring questions directed at him. Scrolling through the nets instead of paying attention. 

It frustrated Renjun that this was how the prince behaved while the press was claiming him as some sort of hero, a role model. It frustrated Renjun because he'd looked up to him, for years and years. It frustrated Renjun that he wasn't able to do anything about it, because this was the prince after all. 

And Renjun wasn't even a proper advisor at that time. 

But he is now, or he will be in just a little more than an hour. Renjun doesn't have a plan, per se, but his chest aches seeing Jaemin like this. He's going to be king one day, and despite everything, Renjun wants him to be a good one. He wants him to be the king that he used to think he would become, back when he was eight and he used to believe in him with everything that he had. He has no idea how today will go, but his breathing picks up just thinking about it. Taeil had told him the itinerary multiple times - get familiar with Jaemin a little and then head to the meeting with the 1900's. 

Taeil's forehead was creased with worry as he told Renjun he wouldn't be accompanying them, and Renjun is only now beginning to understand why. Renjun had met Taeil almost six months ago, and he hadn't lost his cool once. His presence was steady, constant, comforting. Maybe Jaemin needed someone like that, but Renjun already feels his pulse speeding under his skin and he can't even think. He should probably take a calmer before he leaves. There's no way he'll be able to focus on anything like this. 

He finally moves away from his bed, heading to freshen up in the bathroom, and dropping himself at the small table as he waits for his breakfast to come up in the chute. To distract himself from thinking about the warm oats and honey with chocolate chips, he pinches the ends of the display on his forearm, moving it right in front of him, and enlarging the screen so he can scroll through the news headlines. 

'King Johnny Quells Rumor About Diversifying Space Shuttle: "No Immigrants Allowed”' 

"Rubbish," Renjun mutters under his breath, disdain creeping into his voice. Almost everyone had heard the rumors about the floors of the 1900's, where the guards are at least a little lenient. Once you look human enough, you are allowed to dock your spacecraft and enter. And that's not even considering half-breeds. _They must really be desperate,_ Renjun thinks, _to migrate to a colony that can barely sustain itself._

But, especially in the lowest floors where nearly everyone struggles to make ends meet, where crime ravishes whatever little order there is, the royal family and government simply don't care enough to address the problems. That much had been evident from knowing Jaemin. Even without the illegal immigration, those floors are rampant enough with socio-economic problems. Renjun just hopes there's something they can do about it, and a little spark of hope flickers through him, thinking about the meeting they have later that day with some representatives from the floor. They have to make it worth it. Renjun swipes his thumb up to another article, pushing the thought out of his mind. It's way too early. 

'Star-Crossed Lovers? Prince Jaemin Shares Inside Scoop on His Relationship With Prince Jeno of 3000'

He can't even hold in his disgust this time. The little blinking light at the corner, _Trending!_ is almost enough for Renjun to lose his faith in every species out there. He knows that a significant portion of those views aren't even from their people. Instead they're from other shuttles and societies. It seems those are the two things that unify every civilization: the inability to keep a planet sustainably, forcing them to move into shuttles, and the love for gossip. How could people care about nonsense like that when their colony is facing actual problems? Besides, based on his past working with Jaemin, Renjun can testify there's no love lost between the two princes. 

The chute door slides open so abruptly behind him, he almost falls at the loud noise. The warm chocolate smell is enough to distract him from the news for a couple minutes, as he takes the tray from the chute and eats quickly, lightly blowing on the porridge before spooning it into his mouth. The warmth flows through his body and a tingling sensation reaches all the way to his fingertips. 

Maybe he won't need the calmer after all. 

His screen still hovers over his head, and he almost spits out his orange juice when he sees the headline still there with Prince Jaemin looking back at him, his bright smile frozen in the photograph. He scrolls the screen down to get the picture away, landing on a random headline from a conspiracy newsgroup. 

'Biological Warfare: The Untold Story of SS9's Military Plans'

Hang on, this is interesting. No one is supposed to know about that. 

It's top secret information, even Taeil had been so hesitant to tell him. He finally caved in just a couple days ago, seeing as Renjun would be an official advisor from now on, and he was required to be vaccinated against the virus, in case there's an outbreak since he would be in direct contact with the officials. He rubs his thumb against his arm, where there's still a dull ache from the injection. 

Renjun had been disgusted - horrified - when Taeil told him about the virus, but he bit back his emotions and hid them behind an approving nod.  
Taeil had smiled back at him - a genuinely proud smile, as if they had every right to cultivate a disease that would make people crazy, unstable. A disease that would mess with their lungs and their heart, killing them within days. It was almost simple, really. Simple and inhumane. 

To Renjun, it had been bad enough, but imagine if they knew for certain, the people. Imagine if they found out that their own government, their own royal family that they look up to and idolize, that they hold above them on a pedestal like they deserve to be there. Imagine if they knew how contagious the disease is, how it would spread like wildfire and destroy everything that they had tried so fucking hard to salvage from the ruins after earth had been destroyed. This little colony, the shuttle launched into space, a feeble attempt to keep themselves together. To preserve the humans. 

Imagine if they knew how easily they could lose it all. 

A disease, a weapon, an advantage. Is that all they want? Is it really that simple? No, it is never that simple. Renjun knows that it would be almost as easy as using the disease on other planets to use it on their own people. A means of control, stopping rebellions, protests, getting them to do almost anything they wanted. Bending and contorting their willpower like it was made of clay. Corrupting their values and re-writing their beliefs. As if people are made to be controlled.

The disease isn't a weapon, it is a threat. But the people would still protest, because that's all they know to do. Just like how they'd protested all those years ago, when the government had made it mandatory to genetically engineer babies to grow an extra organ, a small thing really, pulsating right at the base of their brains and pumping an individual identification chemical through their blood. But everyone does it now, without complaint. That's how people get connected to the nets, that's how they get the little screens on their wrists with the time and the news and everything they could possibly want. Everyone does it.

Renjun wonders if one day people would become that indifferent about biological warfare too. 

.

He gets ready almost forty-five minutes early, and he does end up taking a calmer, but he wonders if it's more out of habit than need. Dumping the package into the disposal, he slips the little circular sheet into his mouth. It's rough against his tongue, but it doesn't taste like anything, and his eyes close in relief as the chemicals flow through him, forcing his adrenaline levels down and making his heartbeats calm. It pumps regularly, slowing its pace against his rib cage. He sighs at the sudden wave of peace.

Plopping onto his couch, his eyes are drawn to the window. He was lucky enough to claim a room with a window - others would say unlucky enough - and the rooms surrounding the shuttle go for even lower prices. They are furthest away from the center, and people just don't like looking out a window and seeing nothing. People don't like to be reminded that they are on a shuttle floating through the middle of space. No, people dream of having a planet, of flying on airplanes and travelling to different countries. Renjun had seen it all in the movies. But what would people do with a planet other than destroy it? 

Earth is nothing more than a waste planet now, left destroyed and full of craters after World War Five and after being hit by asteroids. They ship the garbage from the colony there, at least once or twice a month. It must have been so expensive to maintain Earth, but it must have been so beautiful. He thinks of all the people. More than half of the population had died between World Wars Four and Five, according to the history books Renjun read. And even still, their colony is struggling to keep itself afloat, drowning in debts to other planets and offering citizens a lifestyle they can barely afford. But that's what the people want.

He sighs and drops his eyes from the eternal darkness outside, shaking his head and smiling almost nostalgically to himself. It's good to be reminded, sometimes, of all they'd lost. Maybe that was why he'd chosen a room with a window. Or maybe it was because it was cheaper. 

He leaves his room half an hour early, the lock sealing shut as he removes his hand from the plain, white door. Straightening his long, black cloak over his white dress shirt, he wills his hands to stop shaking. They move to fiddle with the buttons of his overcoat instead. Everything is a mere formality and Renjun hates it. The meeting will be recorded, because so is everything, and he needs to act proper and be proper. And formal. 

He steps onto the moving walkway, one of the many situated at regular intervals on the residential floors, all heading to the hub of lifts at the very heart of the space station. Since most of the people on their floor are young adults, the walkway moves quickly. It's an efficient system, he supposes, separating people by ages, and having different floors for families and special cases. 

The morning crowd on the walkway is sparse, and Renjun can't even see all the way to the center. It's just a blurry haze of light, buzzing with activity. People are slipping silently onto the way, doors shutting around them as it gets a little later, but one person in particular catches his attention. A head of dark hair, shaved low at the sides, bending over his arm and reading something flashing in the blue light on the sleeve of his white lab coat. But the glasses are a dead giveaway. 

"Mark!" he calls, rushing forward past some people that curse at him for shouting so loudly. He ignores them. Mark raises his head and peeks around, searching for the voice. For someone so opposed to technology that he still wears glasses, it had always seemed odd to him that Mark worked in biochemical engineering. Renjun had confronted him after finding out about the disease, and as it turns out, Mark is one of the leading engineers and not just a regular scientist like he had thought. Renjun had made it clear he didn't approve, but they'd known each other too well and for too long to break their friendship over something so simple. Except it really wasn't simple. But they remained friends anyway. 

Reaching to his side, Renjun bumps shoulders with him as he peers in to read the words glowing off his sleeve. It's the headline about the disease from the controversy newspaper, but Mark tucks his sleeve against his side, trying to hide the words from him, even though the screen disappears once his attention is diverted. 

"Reading that, then?" Renjun asks, puffing a little from the running. Mark's eyes are bloodshot behind his glasses, and Renjun finds himself worrying if he's having trouble sleeping again.  
Mark grunts, trying to ignore the question, but when Renjun presses a little more, he rolls his eyes and gives him a proper response. 

"Nothing good, really. Most of it is nonsense. But the headline is right and that's what matters." Mark sighs and nibbles on his lower lip as his eyes lose focus, lost in thought.  
Most people probably just glance through the headlines, but even one so far down on the news list, even one written by a known controversy newspaper would be sure to gather some attention. Renjun knows he should feel worried that people will find out, but he can't stop himself hoping that someone would force the process to a stop.

"Doesn't make sense," Renjun mutters under his breath, "how did they find out?" 

Mark glances at him, eyes wide, and he knows well enough to shut up as they finally near the center of the shuttle, people rushing in and out of lifts all around them. He sighs at the lost conversation, but quickly finds the elevators heading to floors 0-100 and pushes his way in amidst the crowds. He hadn't even had time to wish Mark a good day. 

Renjun usually stays to himself, he's so quiet and shy that the only person he talks to outside of work is Mark. Perhaps, that's why he tries so hard to hold on to their friendship despite having different beliefs about the disease. Or maybe it's something else. But as people call greetings to one another over the rumbling of the elevator's movements and the loud music, he finds himself wishing he had a couple of friends. A small group, maybe - that would be nice. Four or five people, close as he and Mark are now. He shakes his head to drop the thought. 

The elevators are divided by the hundreds: five for the first hundred floors and another five for the next. 1000 to 1900 are the residential floors, mainly housing developments with small markets, pubs, arcades and parks that are privately owned. Mark works in the medical labs, so he's headed to the 700's, Renjun isn't sure what floor exactly. But Renjun, he is going all the way up to Floor 2, reserved for formal meetings with the royal family and the government. 

It takes a while, and his hands get clammy despite the cold breeze from the vents over their heads. Renjun's gaze drifts over the people in the elevator, and he makes out mainly office workers and business people around him, all donning dark coats, badges and patterned neckties, since floors 1-100 are primarily dedicated to the government and media. There are a couple droids as well, fitting in almost seamlessly in the crowd despite being small, white spheres. Finally, the number lights up in bright red over their heads, as the elevator slides to a smooth stop and the doors open. Renjun has to crane his neck over the other people and stand on his tiptoes to make sure.  
Floor 2. His stomach flips.

His legs are unsteady as he steps off, but even still, relief floods him at being free of the cramped space. One hundred is way too many people to fit in a single elevator, and he is one of the earliest to get off since the lifts head up first before descending. His head and heart throb and pound in unison, and he finds himself wishing he'd brought another calmer with him. The effects of the first one had all but completely worn off. Glancing at his wrist, he sees it's still fifteen minutes before the meeting, but for some reason, his legs have already taken him all the way to Royal Study 1, the letters embossed on the white sheen of the door in gold letters. 

The first time he'd been there, he remembers asking Taeil if it was real gold, and his answer had been simple. 

"Of course." 

And he'd looked at him like it was something obvious, like the royal family was entitled to wasting money on things like gold accents while their citizens were suffering.  
He swallows, taking a deep breath in. 

He's meeting the prince in a couple minutes, their first one-on-one conversation. He can't make any bad impressions, so he should stop thoughts like that now just in case one slips out accidentally during their meeting. 

He's standing outside the door, unsure of what he’s waiting for. The people passing him on the corridor give him weird looks, so he makes up his mind, drying his palms on his dark jeans before pressing it against the door. It takes a couple seconds, the smooth surface cold and humming under his palm, but the door glows a faint green and slides open without a sound. 

He peeps his head in, glancing around the room to see if the prince is present, but his attention is overtaken by the beauty and perfection of the study. The walls and shelves look as if they're made of some kind of wood, and strips of probably real gold decorate intricately designed columns. Plush couches stand at the center, circled by tall shelving that's almost overflowing with books and records. It's like an entirely different world, a different time from the plain, empty, white corridor. A loud, rumbling noise startles him, and he quickly scans the room. It almost sounded like someone clearing their throat, but the space is empty. 

"Must be my stomach," he mutters, laughing as he walks in carefully, trying to be at least a little proper in the posh setting. He’s quickly made aware of exactly how slouched his shoulders are and how curved the line of his back is.

"I should practice my posture," he mutters to himself, almost mockingly. "Can't be slouching in front of the _prince._ " He clasps his hands before him and squares his shoulders. _If only there was a mirror,_ he thinks, glancing around and making almost a complete circle as he scans the room for one. 

And then, his heart stops. 

Standing not even a breath away from him, arms folded across his chest and eyes twinkling with amusement as he looks on, barely holding back a laugh. 

Jaemin. The prince. 

Renjun slaps him across his face. 

And it's completely, entirely an accident, but it's also completely, entirely Jaemin's fault. If he hadn't been standing there, if he hadn't scared him, Renjun never would have reacted like that and slapped him. But he can't exactly explain to the prince that it was his fault that Renjun slapped him, so he instantly apologizes, not missing the way his eyes have widened and his jaw is clenched. He doesn’t miss the way he hasn't even moved a muscle since Renjun slapped him. 

What a perfect first impression. Renjun wants to slap himself. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” he begs, bowing to Jaemin, and an avalanche of worry collapses onto his shoulders. Is he going to lose his job? He can't even find it within himself to be embarrassed.

"It's fine," Jaemin quietens him, the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly tipping up as his eyes travel over Renjun, holding his gaze for a couple seconds before lowering his eyes, dragging them slowly down his face and over his clothes. Renjun knows he should look away, he should lower his head and drop his eyes because this is the prince, and even though he's an advisor, the lines of authority are so clearly marked between them. 

But there's something in Jaemin's eyes, as he lifts them again to Renjun's face, something about them pulls him in, and they're both left staring at one another. And it should be awkward, Jaemin should tell him to know his place and rebuke him, but it isn't and he doesn't. It's almost comfortable, the silence between them, and he watches Jaemin's chest rise and fall in unison with his, and he wonders how it's possible to feel so much already. 

His head is muddled, everything he practiced saying and everything he studied has swiftly abandoned him. His fingers itch to reach out and straighten his clothes, fix his hair, or just simply do something under Jaemin's sharp stare, but despite all his preparation, he feels like he could never have done enough. Even though the lines of Jaemin's face are creased into anger and confusion, his eyes are kind, almost soft. They're dark, obsidian black, and even if Renjun can read layers and layers of emotion hidden behind them, he can't seem to understand Jaemin at all. 

But then Jaemin blinks, once, twice, and he opens his eyes wide, as if he's coming out of some kind of trance. And the moment is lost. Renjun tries to understand what happened, what the stare meant, why his heart is unexpectedly racing. 

But Jaemin's voice cuts through his thoughts, loud and echoing in the room, "Who are you?" 

He sounds so genuinely confused, Renjun is taken aback for a moment. _Is he serious?_ Renjun knows he showed up probably drunk or high out of his mind every time he'd met him in the past, but he doesn't look to be either now. Even still, they'd met at least ten times already. He hadn't expected Jaemin to remember his name, but, as proud as it sounds, he really thought he had made some sort of impression. He can so clearly remember introducing himself, he even ate with the prince a couple times. But Jaemin doesn't seem to remember him at all. 

He doesn't even have the will to be insulted, he's more confused than anything. But Jaemin is still peering at him curiously, as if he's some kind of oddity, as if he's wondering how he managed to get into the study past the security locks. As if he isn't supposed to be there at all. But he _is_ supposed to be there - he knows he is - Taeil's words still ring loud and clear in his ears that he has to assume his duties today. 

So he answers, voice firm, "Huang Renjun. The new royal advisor." 

Jaemin's eyes widen to a point Renjun is absolutely sure it must strain, but Renjun doesn't back down. He had been so earnestly hoping to be wrong about Jaemin, but maybe he was right after all. Jaemin is a dick. He had been so indifferent to everything that he hadn't even noticed Renjun tagging along, for _months._

Anger bubbles inside Renjun, threatening to overflow at any moment. He just hopes he doesn't end up saying something he shouldn't, especially after he just slapped him. 

"The new.. what?" Jaemin finally manages to get out, and Renjun has to clasp his hands tighter, just in case he reaches out and attacks him. 

On purpose this time. 

"We've met before," Renjun forces out through clenched teeth. "A couple times." 

Jaemin doesn't even look perturbed, instead smirking a little at him, and muttering under his breath, "I think I would have remembered meeting you." Eyes trailing up and down his body again, and almost decidedly coming to rest on his lips. Renjun fucking blushes, even though he's so mad at him, so frustrated, he can feel his cheeks heating up because this is the first time in his twenty years of life that someone has flirted with him so blatantly and it had to be fucking Na Jaemin. The person in charge of the future of their entire colony. Renjun wants to punch something. 

"I accompanied Taeil for a couple months," he tries again to jog his memory, emphasizing his words in case Jaemin is a little slow in the understanding department. "He must have told you I was coming today." 

Jaemin just shakes his head, even chewing on his upper lip, and Renjun wonders if he's pranking him. He definitely seems the type to do something so dumb, but the confusion on his features seems genuine. Renjun takes a good look at him; at how his black overcoat is wrinkled; at how he wears the first couple buttons undone, and even a t-shirt instead of a white dress shirt underneath; at how the badges on his coat are bent at awkward angles, as if he hadn't even tried to pin them on straight. And Renjun wonders exactly what he got himself into. 

"I usually don't pay attention when Taeil is around," Jaemin says matter-of-factly. "He does everything for me." Jaemin looks like he wants to say something else, but Renjun cuts him off, and this time he doesn't even try to hold back his anger. 

"Well you should fucking pay attention-"

The door slides open, and Renjun is instantly very aware that he's shouting at the prince, who looks back at him with eyes widened in fear and mouth slightly open. Renjun ignores him, instead turning his attention to the door where a guard stands, hand gripping the frame as he doubles over panting. There's a sinking feeling in Renjun's stomach, and a rapid spell of dizziness makes him stumble. 

Something must be wrong. 

"We found him," the man breathes out, and Renjun's blood runs cold. The room is eerily silent, not even Jaemin has anything to say. The only sound amidst the soft humming of the vents is the man's heavy breathing as he tries to compose himself. He's obviously just run from somewhere, or from something. Renjun can't even blink, he can't breathe, as he waits for the guard to finish his sentence. 

"Taeil," he finally mutters, and he looks up to lock eyes with the prince and his shoulders sag almost apologetically. 

"He's dead."


	2. jaemin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// referenced character death, mentions of blood

_Dead,_ the word seems so unfamiliar to him, so new. Unexpected. His eyes are focused on Taeil's body, laying face down against the stark white tiles, his thick, black hair fanned out above his head. Dead. Jaemin tries forming the word with his lips, with his teeth and with his tongue. 

"Dead," he whispers into the cold, empty air. He decides he doesn't like how the word tastes in his mouth. 

"We just found him here, maybe five minutes ago," someone tells him, and he absentmindedly nods at them to continue as he stares at Taeil's body. "Your Highness," the voice continues, almost hesitant with a trace of fear. "He's been here a couple hours now. We haven't moved the body, I came as soon as it was found. But we don't know the cause of death as yet." 

Jaemin sucks in a large breath as he tries to make sense of what he's being told. A couple hours, Taeil was laying there on the cold, hard floor for a couple hours. Maybe he had tried to call for help and no one heard him? The chances of it being murder are higher than any other probability, and it makes Jaemin's blood curl. He knows they have enemies, _Taeil_ knew they had enemies, but for someone to actually commit cold-blooded murder, for someone to actually kill his advisor on the very floor where he and the royal family live, a wave of unease makes his heart skip a beat.

There were supposed to be officers patrolling the corridors in case something like this happened. There are cameras recording every action, every voice, tracking and identifying people by the chemicals flowing through their veins. But then, _how_ had someone snuck in and killed his advisor in the middle of the hallway, leaving his body on display as if he wanted everyone to see what he was capable of? 

Why was there a man lying dead at his feet? 

"The officers," he starts, but his voice sounds almost like a croak as it squeezes through his tight throat. Coughing a little, he repeats, "The officers who were supposed to be patrolling here. Where were they? _Where are they?_ " His words barely escape through his clenched teeth, but he knows the head of security hears him as his eyes widen in fear at Jaemin's  
anger. 

"Where are they?" he shouts at the man, who all but jumps back at his sudden outburst. A quick flash of a camera screen is all it takes, barely discernible against the white walls and the click almost lost in the hum of electricity flowing around them. But Jaemin has been exposed to the press hundreds, thousands of times in his life, and he thinks that he'd be able to tell if someone takes a picture of him even when he's sleeping.

But this time, the picture isn't of him, it's of his dead advisor at his feet, and Jaemin is repulsed and nauseous. A man is dead and all these people can think is that it would make a good headline story. 

Storming closer to the head of security, he forces himself together, to stay in control, he just has to make it to his room, then he'd be allowed to break apart in peace. His eyes burn with tears but he glares at him, grabs on to his shirt, bunching it at his shoulder, and he knows that the man is frightened but right now, Jaemin doesn't care. He just needs him to listen. He needs him to listen and do exactly what he instructs him to, because they don't have a second chance. 

His voice is stern, harsh and Jaemin has to push himself to continue. It doesn't sound like him. 

"His body. Take his body to the labs and _as soon as_ you find out the cause of death, I need you to let me know. Okay?" The man nods his head, gulping down his fear as determination carves itself onto his face. He must sense the importance, the weight of his responsibilities, because he mutters out, "I won't let you down,Your Highness." He instantly gets to work, calling for extra hands through his intercom. 

Jaemin doesn't even waste a second, the clicking and muffled whispering becoming more insistent as he heads straight towards the press, all of them hidden in the next hallway. He has no idea how they got into their floor, or how they get anywhere really. But they always manage to find a way in, and Jaemin always has to find a way to get them out. 

So he does the only thing he can, while the security works on getting Taeil's body to the labs, he handles the press, talks to them, because he knows that they'd never leave without the information they came for. 

He tells them he isn't sure how or why this happened, and _yes, they can expect a statement from the king on the matter; yes, they will be seeing changes in security; no, he does not have any idea who is responsible._ He wants to tell them to leave him alone, to let him mourn, to just give him a couple minutes to pull himself together, but as it is, his mouth is moving faster than his brain and he doesn't even try to keep up. 

He lets himself talk until his throat closes up on itself, until he can't blink the tears out of his vision anymore and instead they're slipping down his cheeks. He lets himself talk until he's not even sure what he's saying, and until finally, _finally_ some guards arrive and force the press away.

Jaemin briefly registers Renjun's presence at his side, he thinks that he's telling him something, but the sounds have so long faded into a piercing static, that he doesn't even give him a second glance as his numb legs drag him to his room. He shuts and bolts the door behind him, even after scanning his finger in the little slot at the corner, ensuring that no one can enter after him. 

If people knew that he bolts his door too, they might call him old-fashioned- crazy, even - but even if it barely makes the room any safer, to Jaemin, it transforms his space into some sort of sanctuary. Away from the world and away from other people.

Jaemin can usually force himself to assume some sense of security in his quarters, a large, high-ceilinged room fitted with a king-sized bed covered in warm, champagne red sheets. His modern, sleek black desk contrasts with the antiquity of the other furnishings, and it's piled high with old volumes and books. 

Jaemin tries to comfort himself in the familiarity of his surroundings. It's the same, exactly the same, as when his father had been the prince when his grandparents were still alive, and Jaemin snuck in ever so often despite his mother trying to stop him. But he wanted to see his dad, and who could stop a determined four-year old? 

His father had always been happy to see him, probably a welcome relief from the hours spent studying and planning. Back when he was younger and he jumped into his father's arms, looking up at him through a youthful gaze, only noticing his smile and twinkling eyes, blind to the deep bags under them and deaf to his long, tired sighs as Jaemin tried to get him to play. 

The room had been his safe space, the only place other than mealtimes that he saw his father, the only place he sat on his lap and was allowed to play with his stubble and pull at his hair. The only place, even as young as he was, that he could blur the lines between what was proper and what was not. In this room, they were never royalty, they were never responsible for the fate of the entire colony. They were simply a father and his son, playing and laughing. 

But then his father became the king, and very suddenly he moved into his father's room and Jaemin moved into his. Jaemin didn't change anything, maybe switch out the desk and a couple books, and he couldn't stop the cleaning droids from completely replacing the sheets and curtains once he inherited the space. 

But somewhere along the lines, even though he tried to salvage some part of his father for his own, Jaemin stopped thinking of the room as his father’s and started to think of it as his. Maybe it was after he stopped seeing his father, maybe it was after he realised just how little he really meant to him. Maybe Jaemin wanted to save his memories, lock them up in some safe, private part of his heart and protect them from being tarnished by the truth. Maybe he wanted to believe that his father still cared for him, even after everything. 

It's almost funny, how the first person Jaemin thinks of when he hears the word father is no longer the king. Now, he just pictures warm, brown eyes and a soft smile that he would think is forced if he hadn't known him so well. He pictures gentle words and correction, unrelenting guidance and advice. He thinks of the person that made him into the man he is today. He thinks of Taeil, and how he was laying at his feet, and his vision blurs with tears. He wonders about his last moments, wonders if he was in pain, he wonders what were his last thoughts. 

The room is dim, the lights having automatically switched off at his lack of movement. When his wrist lights up with a message, the blue light floods the entire room. His stomach squeezes when he reads the note sent by the head of security, just a single word, really. 

'Poison’

Another sentence creeps up the sleeve of his dark coat, and the letters stare at him for a couple seconds before disappearing. 

'He was at the pub last night, someone must have slipped it in his drink. Unfortunately, we haven’t identified the poison as yet, Sir'

Jaemin feels the strength drain out of his body, and his knees buckle, dragging the material of his cloak and bunching it at his back as he slides down against the wall. He rests his face in his hands, tired and utterly helpless. 

It would have been so simple. Taeil was always too lenient with what he ate, he was even subscribed to receive meals in the chutes, despite Jaemin trying to force him to stop. But Taeil only complained that he didn't have enough time to make meals on his own, and droids would never poison his food anyway. 

Jaemin thinks back to their conversation just the day before, their last conversation. It must have already been after eleven when Taeil finally left, telling Jaemin that he'd just go for one drink and then head to his room. Jaemin can picture the way he smiled, the way he ruffled his hair as he reassured him that it would be okay. 

"Just one," he had promised, "we have the meeting tomorrow so I can't get too drunk." 

And fuck.

It's at that exact moment that Jaemin remembers, tears having already dried onto his cheeks and eyes burning red and swollen. The meeting. His eyes fly to his wrist, and he sighs in relief as they still have half an hour before they are required to be present. 

_They._ The word mocks him, laughs at him, and Jaemin scowls back at the air. Who even is they anymore? Normally, Jaemin would attend meetings like these with Taeil, meetings that his father deems too unimportant to attend, so he just sends Jaemin after doing all the legwork behind the scenes. 

“Let them think well of you,” his father had told him, and Jaemin knew that as much as he should be grateful, he really wasn’t. And it bothered him, because wasn’t his father just helping him? “You’ll be king one day, you need their support.” Jaemin had forced a smile back, because if he sees his father once or twice every couple months, he wants to be smiling when he does. Because he still craves fatherly affection, he needs his approval, and he remembers distinctly his father calling him the ‘face of the colony’. Boasting about how handsome his smile is.

Jaemin isn’t stupid. He knows what they do is probably wrong. Rehearsing all their meetings, orchestrating chance encounters, planning everything to make the royal family look good. He isn’t even sure if the people who are attending the meeting today are really from the 1900’s this time. But nobody needs to know about that. Once it’s perfect for the cameras, once the meeting runs smoothly and the press gives a favorable report, nothing else matters.

So Jaemin usually just learns off the minimal lines prepared for him, or Taeil fills in the gap when he can’t be bothered to continue, and the next thing he knows, the press are claiming him as some sort of a hero, a prince who’s destined to lead the colony to greatness. It disgusts him, but what else is he to do? Jaemin knows he’s nothing more than a puppet on strings, nothing more than a means to an end, nothing more than a symbol, a face. And it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. 

Sometimes, Jaemin wishes he could be better. He wishes he could do something. But Taeil is always there, running through his lines with him, acting out possible scenarios, smiling so gently and telling him he’s doing a good job. Allowing him to get so drunk he can’t even think straight, and he just assures him that it’ll be fine. And it always is, Taeil always takes care of it, so it just keeps happening. And Jaemin stops caring. 

But all of a sudden, Taeil isn't fucking there anymore, and Jaemin has no idea where to start. He finds himself thinking of the boy, Renjun. _The new royal advisor,_ he had said, looking back at Jaemin as if it was something he was supposed to know. But try as he might, Jaemin can only vaguely recall Taeil mentioning something about getting another advisor.  
Why can't Jaemin remember meeting him? Did he really pay so little attention to the people around him that he completely ignored his presence? He can't even recall Taeil mentioning anything about Renjun joining them officially from today, but to be fair, he'd only been half-listening as Taeil walked out, maybe a little tipsy and too overwhelmed with exhaustion from planning for the meeting today. 

_The meeting,_ he remembers again. Now only twenty minutes away. Jaemin decides he probably should just go with Renjun, what other choice does he have? And besides, Taeil had trusted him, and he'd been attending meetings with them for months already. Apparently. So he should have at least some idea what to do. Maybe they should run lines one last time on their way to the meeting hall. 

It’s almost embarrassingly easy to find Renjun’s contact information, but then again, he is the prince so he can open a couple doors others can’t. Jaemin sends a quick message to Renjun as he heads to his joint bathroom to wash the sticky, dried tears off his cheeks and hopefully make himself presentable for their meeting. 

**Advisor(?) Renjun**

**0748** You’re my advisor right? Then you know we have a meeting in ten minutes. Where are you?

Jaemin hopes Renjun is convinced by his playful tone, because he doesn’t think he can deal with anyone asking him if he’s okay right now. But if Renjun is anything like Taeil, he’ll be able to see right through him. Though, that doesn’t seem like it’ll be much of a problem. Even knowing Renjun for just five minutes was enough to prove to Jaemin that Renjun was absolutely nothing like Taeil. They had gotten into an argument in their first conversation, but even after fifteen years with Taeil as his advisor, the older had never once so much as raised his voice back at the prince. 

Jaemin ducks his head in the cool water cupped in his hands, and relishes in the burning in his face seems to drain into the water. He glances back at his face in the mirror as he pulls a towel and aggressively scrubs at his skin, reddening it further. His silver hair is messy atop his head, the sides of his hair sticking to his forehead with the dampness. He tries to smoothen it, but it doesn’t even matter, his eyes are bloodshot and his face blotchy and his nose is stained red. It’s painfully obvious that he’d been crying. 

Sighing, he resigns himself to being the recipient of hundreds of people telling him ‘i’m sorry’, or looking at him with pity, or even completely ignoring him in favour of an awkward conversation. His gaze falls on his wrist, and he notes with surprise that Renjun has replied to his message already and he hadn’t noticed.

 **0748** I’m right here  
**0749** Outside your room?

And sure enough, when Jaemin slides open the door to his room, there’s Renjun standing, back pressed against the hall opposite. It’s only then that Jaemin realises exactly how small the other boy is, narrow shoulders swallowed by his overcoat, tiny hands peeking out from the sleeves, and he’s just short in general. It’s exacerbated by the white halls stretching endlessly on both his sides and Jaemin barely suppresses the smile that escapes as he ushers Renjun into his room. 

“I just need to change my shirt,” he tells him, pulling off his coat and slipping off his inner t-shirt that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be a formal dress shirt. The neck is soaking from him dunking his head in the water, and he dumps the shirt on the floor. 

“You can probably go through the notes in the meantime,” he tells Renjun, but the other boy just stares back at him, mouth hanging slightly open and his dark, widened eyes stuck somewhere on Jaemin’s chest. 

Glancing down, Jaemin feels his cheeks burning as he finds his torso dotted with purple and red bruises from the night before. He has the decency to be even a little embarrassed, and he ducks out of the room into his walk-in-closet the next room over without a single word. His fingers button the length of a wrinkled white shirt before he takes a deep breath and walks back into the other room, where Renjun is still very pointedly staring at the floor.

Clearing his throat to give him a signal that he’s decent, Jaemin finds the corner of his lips tipping up at how Renjun peeks out of the corner of his eyes at Jaemin, almost worriedly surveying him to ensure he’s fully clothed, before giving him his full attention.

“Did you go through the notes?” Jaemin asks as he grabs his coat and slips it over the shirt, the warmth making him a little more comfortable in the ever-present chill of his room. 

“Notes?” Renjun scrunches his eyebrows, and Jaemin’s heart skips a beat. He didn’t read through the notes? He looks like he has no idea what Jaemin is talking about, but surely Taeil must have sent him a copy. Before he has the chance to say anything, Renjun shakes his head roughly to clear his thoughts and then he’s speaking. 

“I don’t know what _notes_ you’re talking about, but it doesn’t matter, Jae- Your Highness.” Jaemin tells him just Jaemin is fine. “Are you sure you’re okay to have the meeting? We can always reschedule it to another time.”

The words are already rolling off Jaemin’s tongue, natural as his lies always are, “I’m fine.” And even as much as he isn’t fine, as much as he would love to reschedule the meeting or just cancel it completely, he knows how important his role is in maintaining their image, and quelling uprisings and protests. And he knows that it’s something that he has to do, whether or not the most important person in his life died that morning or not. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, but Renjun doesn’t look convinced. He changes the topic to much more pressing matters. “Didn’t you read the notes? Taeil didn’t give you a copy?”

Renjun just raises his eyebrows at him, while still managing to look unimpressed. Jaemin’s stomach flips. 

“You know, sort of a script for the meeting? You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he asks worriedly as Renjun’s eyebrows raise even further. If they don’t leave now, they’ll never make it to the meeting on time. And while Jaemin isn’t a stranger to walking in late to meetings, this time he knows that Taeil isn’t there to cover for him.

He sighs, walking closer to Renjun and stretching up to open a cupboard at his side. “I’ll send you a copy,” he mutters, grabbing three small packets from inside, fingers already ripping open the first one on pure instinct. 

“What’s that?” Renjun asks, voice laced with more concern than curiosity. Jaemin looks back at him, unbelieving.

“You’ve never taken any before? It’s ecstasy,” he replies simply, and Renjun’s eyes widen in understanding as Jaemin pulls the little circle from the plastic package and brings it closer to his mouth. 

“No,” Renjun grabs onto his arm, halting the sheet tantalizingly close to his lips. Maybe if he reaches out with his tongue, he could taste it. Jaemin is sure even just a little bit would make him feel something. But Renjun’s grip on his arm is firm, and his eyes bore into Jaemin’s own with a kind of intensity that makes him unable to move a muscle. 

“Don’t take them now,” Renjun advises, and Jaemin sucks in a breath at his placating tone. “You can take how many you want after the meeting.” 

“I don’t need it after the meeting, I fucking need it now, Renjun,” he says, wrestling his arm from Renjun’s grip and slipping the first sheet onto his tongue. But one has never been enough, and he vaguely feels his pulse racing as he feels a smile growing on his face for no reason. But he doesn’t _feel_ happy. He just feels nothing. 

Renjun’s eyes narrow, and he grabs the other two packets from Jaemin’s hand. Renjun is strong for his size, and Jaemin rubs his arm as Renjun tells him firmly, “no more,” before shoving the packets back into the cupboard. Jaemin pouts, but he knows it’s too late to argue, time just slipping away and escaping from them. 

He pushes away and Renjun follows him to the door as he dips his feet into his boots, pulling up the notes on his screen and sending Renjun a copy as Renjun shuts the door behind them. He doesn’t say anything as they start walking, but he sees Renjun pull up the document and enlarge his screen in front of him in a tense silence.

“What the fuck is this?” Renjun’s voice cuts through his thoughts as they step into their private elevator. Glancing over into his screen, Jaemin feels a surge of pride that Renjun is still stuck on the first slide and he’s already made it to slide nineteen. He convinces himself that it doesn’t matter that it’s Renjun’s first time reading through them. 

“The notes,” Jaemin replies, and he feels offended on Taeil’s behalf at Renjun’s obvious disgust. “Taeil wrote them.” he tries to defend, but Renjun only scowls further. 

“Stick to the script,” Renjun reads in a mocking voice, and Jaemin visualizes the page in front of him as they walk in step to the door set a way along the hall. “Remember what we practiced. Smile. Be empathetic. Make vague promises only. Listen to what the people say.” 

“Jaemin, what the fuck?”

“It’s the general rules for meetings. It’s written at the top of the page.” Renjun just rolls his eyes back at him.

“I know, I just-” 

Renjun’s voice fades out as they come to a stop outside the door, and Jaemin wonders why his hands are sweaty all of a sudden. He pulls his coat to dry them on his pants. He shouldn’t be nervous, he’s been attending meetings ever since he was a little boy. But this is his first without having Taeil at his side, and it’s a space that Renjun just can’t replace. 

"You know how important this meeting is, so we can't mess up," Jaemin says, turning to Renjun and trying to be a little motivational despite the numb throbbing in his chest. He doesn't know if he's trying to convince Renjun or himself. Jaemin sees more than hears Renjun's scoff, and his lips twist scornfully, as if Renjun can't believe his words.

"Yeah, right," he hears him mutter under his breath, and Jaemin’s heart sinks. Thinking back on the past month, the meetings Renjun must have attended, all the time Renjun must have spent with him, just for Jaemin to not remember him at all. Jaemin must look like an ass to him. His mind races, trying to recall paying attention in any of the sessions, but his memories are shrouded by a blurry haze.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, and instantly Renjun's behavior towards him makes sense. He'd only been drunk and high and late and who even knows what else, but those meetings weren't important anyways. _But Renjun doesn't know that._ He must think that Jaemin is incapable, useless, not fit to be the prince or rule over their colony, and it makes Jaemin desperate to prove him wrong, despite the chilling dread in his gut telling him Renjun is right. It's harsh, the sudden need that consumes him, that clouds his senses, and he finds the words slipping out before he can stop them.

"You think you could make a better prince than me, Renjun? A better king?" he asks, voice lilting at the end, but he needs to know the other boy's answer. Jaemin was foolish enough to think that Renjun was on his side, that he was behind him, supporting him just as Taeil had done. That he would tell him he was doing well, that he would smile with him. But Renjun would never tell him that because _he genuinely doesn’t think that Jaemin would make a good king._ And maybe that hurts more than Taeil lying to him about the same thing. 

Jaemin studies Renjun as he drops his eyes, chews on his lip, entirely lost in thought as he contemplates his answer. Jaemin's heart thumps, and anticipation sears through his chest as Renjun joins their eyes again, a small smirk tilting his pink lips up.

"I think my plastic cactus would make a better king than you," and even the disdain in his voice isn't enough to stop the laugh that escapes from Jaemin. It’s an accident, but despite taking only a single shot of ecstasy, he feels his body shaking as he tries to hold in his laughter.

"This is what I mean," Renjun argues, voice rising over his giggles, and Jaemin purses his lips together to stop the grin daring to stretch across his features. His fingers dig into his thighs as Renjun continues, and he forces to hold himself together.

"You don't take any fucking thing seriously! You don't so much as pay attention in meetings, you don't even do anything! Jaemin, you fucking script your entire meetings. You don’t care about anyone other than yourself and your image. And there are people out there that look up to you." Renjun's voice changes so quickly, the frustration drowning as he practically begs him, voice dripping with concern and _pity_. Jaemin fucking hates being pitied. But Renjun isn't done quite yet.

"They think you're some sort of fucking hero, but they don't even know the first thing about you when everything you feed them is lies. All of it. You don't deserve these people idolizing you. You don't deserve the press covering for you and Taeil covering for you just so you can show up at meetings drunk and high out of your mind and fucked into next year. You don’t deserve your life, you don’t deserve to be a king."

But that's where Jaemin's self-restraint stops short and he realizes that it's no longer laughter that is bubbling up and threatening to spill out. This time, it's anger, flaring, blazing anger, and this time, Jaemin doesn't hold back. Because he's heard that before, but in his own voice and his own words, _you're not worth it, you're not worth it,_ an unending mantra as he pours shot after shot and gets himself high off alcohol and drugs and sex and every fucking thing he can because that’s the only way to make it stop. That’s the only way he can feel anything. But Renjun is still looking at him, eyes alight with fire and anger and concern and pity, and Jaemin doesn't even try to stop the words he knows he'll regret.

"You don't know _one single thing_ about me, Huang Renjun," he forces out, the words scorching his throat. He feels an uneasy surge of pride that he managed to remember the other’s entire name, and the right side of his mouth pulls into a harsh smirk. "You think it's a big fucking deal that you're an advisor?" he sneers back at him, and his chest tightens as Renjun glares up at him, despite his lower lip trembling. Jaemin wonders if he knows how vulnerable it makes him look, how innocent, how _pitiful_. His heart throbs, pounds, his chest heaving, but he continues, eyes boring intensely into Renjun's. He wants to destroy him.

“You think you know everything,” his voice gravelly, deep, dangerous. Renjun’s eyes widen slightly, and he barely breathes as Jaemin leans closer to him, emphasising his words through his clenched teeth. 

“You think you’re important, you think being an advisor gives you any power? You think you can change anything?” He relishes the way Renjun looks up at him, hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight and straining to hold back. But by the time Jaemin notices the tears pooled in his eyes, it’s too late to want to stop, and the sentence slips out before he can swallow the words.

"You don't know _anything._ "

Jaemin doesn’t look back to see the effect his words have had on Renjun, even though his chest burns with the need to know if the tears have fallen or not. Instant concern lurches in his stomach; he hadn’t meant to go so far. Even still, he can’t find it in himself to regret what he said. Instead, he simply turns away to push the door open to the circle of faces waiting for them. 

.

The meeting goes fine until Renjun starts speaking. Well, not exactly, but it certainly gets a lot worse once Renjun opens his mouth. 

Jaemin doesn’t know if the residents didn’t get the memo, but they don’t stick to the script. Maybe they are actual residents after all. From the second Jaemin and Renjun entered the room, they were crying and begging him for better jobs or working conditions and wages and whatever. That was _nowhere_ in the notes, and Taeil had not given him any pointers on what to do in a situation like this.

So he just stares at the people from his seat at the head of the table, and listens as an elderly lady is complaining about how the facilities in the industry haven’t improved since she was a little girl, and the salary hasn’t increased since her parents used to do the same work, manufacturing droids and repairing them. About how the waste and pollution from the factories is making it almost impossible to live in that area. Jaemin fiddles with his fingertips. 

“It’s an honest, good job, I’m not complaining,” she insists through sniffles, and Jaemin tries to sympathise with her. “But we just can’t afford anything anymore if the wages aren’t increased.” From some dark, dusty corner of Jaemin’s mind, he remembers that she’s the union representative for the mechanics living in the 1900’s, and he assumes the others around the circular table are union members as well. 

The lady’s eyes are shining with tears, and Jaemin feels a pang in his gut. He wants to help her, he sees her exhaustion in her slumped shoulders and the years of hard work evident in her chapped fingers and strong muscles. He just doesn’t know what to say.

“And that’s not even to mention the crime,” she continues, ignoring his silence. A couple around the table nod along at this, and Jaemin tucks it away in his brain as something important. They all know about the crime, but the verdict from the last time it was discussed with the directors, if Jaemin remembers correctly, was to simply leave it alone. To not get involved. 

“It’s like hell living there with all the gangs. And.. outsiders.” Out of the corner of his eye, he senses Renjun glancing at him on his right, and he hesitates a couple seconds, probably waiting for Jaemin to do or say something. If it’s one thing they were definitely not supposed to discuss in the meeting, having read the notes beforehand or not, they know it’s the illegal immigration. 

The other residents around the table are staring at him, and his face burns in discomfort. They look almost out of place amidst the clean, white walls and table, their tattered clothes contrasting harshly. A group of reporters is perched on a table to the side, and Jaemin measures his breaths as they jot little notes and the unblinking red lights of camera screens assure him that the entire thing is being broadcast. He wonders what they’re writing. 

Jaemin opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, honestly, but Renjun beats him to it, slipping off his chair and moving awkwardly to kneel at the woman’s side and hold her veined hand. Jaemin clenches his teeth; he isn’t sure what Renjun is doing, but he’s still a little mad at him about their argument just a couple minutes ago. 

“You’ve been working quite a while in the industry, haven’t you?” he starts, voice so gentle, Jaemin has to strain to hear him. He didn’t know his voice could get so tender. He can’t imagine his face, Renjun has only ever been angry at him, but the lady’s face softens in return and she nods as he continues. “Tell me what changes you want to see.”

She pauses before spurting a list, and Jaemin can barely keep up but Renjun nods along, as he jots little words on his tablet and asks clarifications here and there. And before Jaemin knows it, other people from around the table are chiming in with their opinions and suggestions, and Renjun is talking to them and listening to them. Jaemin looks at him then, his face turned slightly to the side, eyes soft and shining, a gentle smile on his lips, completely focused on helping the people. His heart skips a beat. 

And Jaemin just feels guilty, because he never felt guilty when it was Taeil that was covering for him, Taeil that was helping him, Taeil that was leading for him. He never felt guilty taking credit, because to the reporters, an advisor’s work is synonymous with the king’s work or prince’s work. So if Renjun ends up helping these people in any way, Jaemin would get the credit for it, even if he so fucking obviously doesn’t deserve it. 

But he doesn’t want the credit for this, what is Renjun thinking? They can never keep the promises he’s making to these people, the colony is in no place to spend money to improve _their_ quality of life when the higher-ups are demanding more and more every day. Fuck, he never should have brought him without explaining that they aren’t allowed to make any actual changes, just follow what his father already discussed and agreed to before planning the meeting.

“Oh, dear, you have a nosebleed,” the lady’s voice spears through his thoughts, and Jaemin looks up to see her eyes trained worriedly on Renjun. He’s at his side in a moment, and Renjun stands up as Jaemin pulls a tissue from his jacket pocket and hands it to him. He accepts it without a word and without so much as a glance at Jaemin. 

“Are you alright?” he mutters, voice tight with sudden concern. He knows they just argued and he knows that they’re still mad at one another, but Renjun’s face is so pale, and his eyes are unfocused and his fingers are fucking shaking as he holds up the tissue, stained red. A faint metallic scent reaches his nose and it’s only then that Jaemin realises just how close he’s standing to Renjun. His heart thumps in his ears as Renjun nods blankly at him, and Jaemin’s fingers clench around his forearm and he pulls him to sit. He tries to ignore the way Renjun flinches at his touch. 

Stooping at his side, he glances up at him, his slow, laboured breaths tickling against Jaemin’s hair. Jaemin chews on his lip as Renjun groans lightly, dabbing at his nose where a gentle trail of blood remains. Someone shuffles in the background and Jaemin remembers that there are still people around them, looking on at their interaction, he remembers that there are cameras on them. It seems as though the bleeding has stopped, but Renjun’s face still lacks vibrancy, and his lips are pasty. He leans forward to rest his head on his folded arms on the table. 

“Thank you all for coming,” Jaemin tells the people around him as he stands at Renjun’s side. “I’d love to have a follow-up meeting with you in the near future, to continue planning and organizing to improve your daily lives.” At least one thing that he learnt from the notes came in handy, and the residents nod at one another as they move off towards the door, chattering loudly, and daresay, excitedly. The lady gives Renjun one more concerned glance, then smiles gently at Jaemin before exiting. 

“I’m fine, Jaemin. I was just a little dizzy,” Renjun’s weak voice calls from the chair and he pushes himself to stand despite Jaemin’s protests. His tone is still gentle, Jaemin wonders if it’s on purpose or if he just doesn’t have the strength to be upset. Renjun’s words still ring in his mind, but his own words do too, and Jaemin just wishes they could start over from the first time they met one another. Before the argument, and back to before Renjun fucking slapped him, because he had _not been_ prepared for that. 

“I’m good now,” Renjun insists, brushing off Jaemin’s extended hand with a wave and moving towards the exit himself. “We’re good,” he mutters under his breath, so soft that Jaemin wonders if he imagined it. Maybe he was feeling guilty about their fight too. It seems too sudden, after the intensity of their conversation earlier, and Jaemin feels his curiosity growing about Renjun. Is he always like this?

The press has vanished as well, almost surprising, but they probably preferred to interview the residents over him at that moment. 

“I think that went well,” Renjun mutters, and the hope in his voice makes Jaemin nibble on his lips. Renjun genuinely thinks he did the right thing. The air is still tense between them, but the glint is slowly returning to Renjun’s eyes and Jaemin risks a small smile at him despite the sinking feeling in his gut. How are they going to fix this? Word of the broadcast has probably already reached the directors, all the promises they made and how much they strayed from how the meeting was supposed to go. 

But Renjun gives him a small smile in return, and Jaemin just sighs. His eyes fall shut. It’s probably time he explained to Renjun exactly what their role is, because it’s slowly becoming apparent that Taeil did not. They’re not meant to change the world, they’re not supposed to create revolutions and alter age-old laws and conventions. 

No. He and Renjun? 

They’re simply puppets.


	3. renjun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mention of past character death, blood  
> i promise there is a scientific explanation for everything hehe  
> enjoy~

Maybe Renjun was wrong about Jaemin. Yes, he’s a major dick, but it’s a little more than that. He’s fucking brainwashed. 

“So let me get this straight,” he tries to wrap his head around everything Jaemin told him as he crosses his legs to rest his warm bowl in the middle. 

They’re in Jaemin’s room again, but in Renjun’s opinion, calling it a room is an understatement. Renjun knows he’s the prince, but is it really necessary for his ‘quarters’ to be more than three times the size of Renjun’s own room, fitted with gold-trimmed furnishings and elegantly framed portraits and thick, fancy draperies? 

Renjun thinks about asking to use his washroom just to wander around a little more. 

“All we’re supposed to do is just learn off lines and recite them back at meetings?” he asks, and Jaemin nods his head tiredly and shovels some steaming ramen into his mouth. When Renjun had seen Jaemin ordering _ramen_ from his personal chef through his chute, he almost thought well of him. He almost believed that maybe he wasn’t so bad, if he was content with eating so simply. But when the food arrived, complemented with high-end, imported vegetables and a drink he didn’t even recognize, well, his almost good thoughts disappeared along with the thousands of dollars the meal had undoubtedly cost. 

“And who are these directors you keep telling me about?” Renjun questions after grabbing his glass to down a mouthful of the light pink liquid. It’s nice actually, he doesn’t recognise the taste, but it’s tangy and a little fruity, bubbles tickling down his throat. It looks foreign, and Jaemin tells him it’s imported from another planet that once threatened to invade their colony. Renjun doesn’t want to drink it ever again. 

“Are they the floor representatives?” he presses before Jaemin has a chance to answer his question about the directors. Each hundred floors has an elected representative that attends official meetings on their behalf, putting forward problems faced by their groups and other suggestions. They make up a sort of unofficial government, but without any real power to make decisions. The royal family is the only group with actual abilities to bring about change. And apparently, yet not surprisingly, Renjun thinks, they’ve been abusing it. 

Jaemin has the decency to blush, because apparently no, the directors are not the floor representatives. Renjun feels disgust building in his gut, how is it that he’s never known about any of this? Why have they kept everything such a big secret from him? Isn’t he an advisor, after all? His teeth clench together, and he rests his chopsticks in his bowl and leans back against the couch, trying to ignore how easily his back sinks into it and how comfortable it is. He’s sure it’s imported as well; this is why their economy is fucking failing and they’re drowned in debt. All because of a nice couch, and expensive food, and the most inconsequential things. 

“The directors… are people with influence,” Jaemin finally settles on telling him, and Renjun feels his heart sink. People with influence? Rather, people with money. He sucks in a large breath, and Jaemin looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the floor bent over his food. His eyes are hesitant, worried, like he’s waiting on Renjun to explode. _As he fucking should,_ Renjun thinks. Jaemin rests his back against the couch where Renjun sits. 

“Most of them fund the running of the shuttle. They contribute heavily to paying our expenses, or are influential in foreign relations, both within the shuttle and abroad.” Jaemin’s voice is monotone, almost resigned, and Renjun can’t tell if he approves of the arrangement or not. His eyes are shut, and Renjun steals the moment to trace his eyes over his features, opting to ignore Jaemin’s words, if just for a little bit. He’s exhausted from the morning already, and his head pounds. 

Jaemin’s silver hair sticks up at awkward angles, casting gentle shadows over his sculpted face. Renjun has always thought Jaemin was handsome, but seeing him like this, after removing his makeup, in slacks and a large t-shirt, lips downturned in contrast to his usual blinding smile. It feels intimate, like a secret, it’s a side of Jaemin he’s never seen. Renjun drags his eyes down to his neck, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Renjun nibbles on his lip, and he realises that his breaths have unconsciously fallen in sync with the rises and falls of Jaemin’s chest. 

When Jaemin opens his eyes and tilts his head to the side, Renjun isn’t certain why he doesn’t look away. Why he allows his eyes to meet Jaemin’s tired ones, why he keeps staring at him, why his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears, resonating through his entire skull. His chest is on fire, but Jaemin’s eyes are so kind, so soft, that he’s almost comfortable under his unrelenting gaze. 

A little ding makes him jump, and Jaemin smiles gently at him before almost lazily turning his attention away to glance at the message lighting up on his wrist. Renjun forces his eyes back down at his food that’s now cold in the bowl against his legs. Clearing his throat, Jaemin pushes himself off the ground and rests his bowl with a clank on the glass coffee table. His breathing has picked up since reading the message, Renjun notes, and an uneasy feeling builds in his throat. 

“Hey,” Jaemin tries to get his attention, voice tight, and Renjun stands, stretching his cramping legs as Jaemin continues. He already knows what he’s going to say. “Take the rest of the day off.” And Renjun would smile, because he was right, but there’s something sour in his stomach, and he can’t find the will to lift his lips up at the other boy. 

“It’s 1400, Jaemin. The rest of the day?” Renjun asks, disbelieving. Jaemin drops his eyes, a blush rising high on his cheeks, and he clenches his jaw as if he’s preventing himself from saying something. Instead, he just turns away and promptly walks into the other room without saying anything else. Maybe Renjun imagines it, but he pauses a second before pulling the door shut behind him. 

Well, that was just fucking rude. 

Renjun tries to ignore the way something in his chest _aches_ knowing what Jaemin is about to do, and he tries to convince himself that it doesn’t concern him. That it doesn’t matter. But he’s thinking about earlier, seeing the way Jaemin’s chest was covered with dark bruises, and he digs his nails into his palm to will the image out of his mind. Renjun hears a shower switch on as he’s gathering his tablet and some files he has to look through, and he rolls his eyes as he walks out. He wishes he could slam the door shut but it just slides closed without a sound.

Let Na fucking Jaemin destroy his own life. Renjun doesn’t care. He has no reason to. Besides, he has things to do, and _a lot_ to think about. 

.

Taeil. The first and most important matter on the list Renjun makes once he gets back to his room. He doesn’t even get to the second item, his stylus hovering over his tablet where the name stares back at him, underlined twice for good measure. His hands shake.

Renjun sighs tiredly, but his mind races, thinking back on that morning’s events. Against his better judgement, he pulls the display screen from his arm and enlarges it to search through the news. Almost every single headline is about Taeil, save for the few in between about their meeting with the residents of the 1900’s. Renjun chews on his lower lip before clicking on the first article, skimming through the text to get to the part he’s really interested in. 

The photo. Renjun feels guilt building in the pit of his stomach, he’s staring at a picture of a dead man after all. But he needed to see the photo again, just to be certain. Memories of the last couple months he spent with Taeil threaten to resurface, and burning tears prickle in his eyes as he rocks back and forth. His gaze is frozen on the picture, and he takes a deep breath to force himself to focus. Because it’s not the fact that Taeil is gone that worries him the most. It’s not having seen him lying face-down, motionless, limbs spread awkwardly. Dead. 

No, it’s the fact that he had seen the image before, seen a snapshot of that single moment in his nightmare. He remembers waking up terrified, thoughts overpowered by a man with dark hair fanned over his head as he lay unmoving on the cold, tiled ground. Dead. And Renjun had dreamt that _hours before anyone found him._

Renjun doesn’t believe in coincidences, he’s always had firm faith that everything happens for a reason. By habit, he pulls the tip of his index finger into his mouth and bites down hard as he thinks, his teeth scraping against the smooth skin. What could this possibly mean? How could he have dreamt something he’d never seen before, and then to have it actually happen? Maybe if it was something ordinary, maybe if he’d just dreamt of eating eggs for breakfast or running into Mark on his way to work. Maybe then it wouldn’t worry him so much. 

But this was something Renjun couldn’t have known, couldn’t have predicted would ever turn into a reality. The image in his mind was _exactly_ the same as the one in the news article. It has to be one of two things, and they’re both ridiculous, improbable circumstances. But Renjun is helplessly confused and worried, and he’d be willing to accept any explanation once it makes sense, no matter how unlikely. 

The first probability makes him wince. Renjun had been there and he’d been the one that killed Taeil. He would laugh at himself for thinking something like that, but it makes sense. Renjun scans the article quickly, there’s still no verdict on how the murder was carried out. It could have been anything, Renjun knows he’s clever. Maybe he killed him and took a memory erasing serum in case he was suspected. That had been a recent trend for crimes, ever since the advent of memory tracing of possible suspects to avoid prosecuting innocent people. 

But if Renjun had taken the memory eraser, how had he dreamt of seeing Taeil dead? Perhaps he messed up the dosage, or maybe it was one of the side effects? Besides that, there’s another big factor that doesn’t add up. 

Why would he kill Taeil? 

They hadn’t been close, per se, but Renjun still considered him a friend. And he would never _kill someone._ He breathes a sigh of relief, discounting the thought. 

The exhaustion from the day is making him too paranoid, and he moves from the table to flop onto his belly on the couch, legs kicking up behind him. But the second idea is less likely, and makes even less sense. 

Renjun could see the future. It’s not unpopular, precognition, but it’s usually reserved for odd people with even odder tales and lives. Not Renjun. He barely knows anything about psychic abilities, and with a resigned sigh and overflowing reluctance, he pulls himself to sit up and searches the nets for any information he can find. 

Hours later, after sifting through countless advertisements for the nearest psychic in his area and hundreds of articles about people with vastly different situations from him, and maybe after getting distracted for a bit too, he finally stumbles upon something useful. 

_So you had a precognitive dream. Here’s what you can expect next._

The title sounds like definitive clickbait, and Renjun is pleasantly surprised to find the article boasting detailed information and pertinent topics. He scrolls through a bit, moving back to his table so he can jot little notes on his tablet. He feels foolish, but he brushes the thought aside and continues scribbling until his hand starts cramping. He just needs to make sense of what happened. 

According to the article, the dreams should become more frequent, not every night, but at least once every two weeks or so. Renjun perks up when he reads the next piece, dropping his stylus on the table to give the screen his full attention. 

_One way to tell for sure if you’re having precognitive dreams or if it’s simply a coincidence:  
Due to the awakening of your inner eye, it has been common for the outer eye to change shade. Note that this may take a couple dreams before changes can be observed_

And so Renjun finds himself standing in front of his mirror, feeling utterly stupid until he glances up and said eyes almost fall out of his head. They _are_ a different shade, and he’s certain that he’s not imagining anything. His eyes have always been dark, almost perfectly black, but the irises that are reflected in the mirror are light brown. His fingers shake as he searches through his camera screen, comparing some old photos with his present eye colour. His heart races, pounds, as blood screams in his ears, and Renjun smiles. It’s definitely different. 

Just then, his wrist vibrates, and he laughs, bewildered, before glancing down and seeing Mark’s name glowing off his skin. He accepts the call.

“Jun,” Mark’s voice is loud and clear, and Renjun hums to let him know he’s listening, leaning a little closer to his wrist so Mark can hear him better.

“I know you hate clubbing,” he starts, and Renjun cuts him off with a groan. Of course he wanted something, Mark only calls when he is in desperate need of help. Other than that, messages Renjun sends to him usually go unread for days. 

“Hear me out!” Mark begs, and the little sing-song tone of his voice makes Renjun smile. He doesn’t make a sound and Mark continues. Renjun can hear his pout as he speaks. 

“This guy at work, he asked me to go out with him tonight. He’s...” Renjun hears Mark giggling to himself, then taking a deep breath before continuing. Renjun leans back against his chair, smiling. It’s good to see Mark getting out a bit, but Renjun still doesn’t see exactly how he fits into all of this. 

“He’s cute,” Mark finally blurts, and Renjun rolls his eyes. “I said yes, but, I need you to come with me.” A pause. “Please.”

“And why would I want to third-wheel on your date?” Renjun asks, voice tired. He doesn’t mind going - honestly, the exhaustion from even half a day’s work has his head pounding again and he could use a little break. But why would Mark want him there? It’s been ages since they’ve last gone to the bar together, they usually just prefer to cuddle and watch movies until they fall asleep. 

“Impulse control,” Mark says simply, and his voice suddenly gets so serious, Renjun feels a little worried. “I can’t be with him, and if I’m drunk, I don’t think I’d be able to control myself. That’s where you come in,” he finishes with a hopeful lilt to his voice. 

Renjun feels curiosity more than worry then, and he can’t help himself from asking, “And why can’t you get together?” Mark takes a deep breath, and Renjun makes up his mind to go with him, no matter how stupid his response might be. His best friend needs him, and Mark is someone he’d do anything for. Even if it means spending the night awkwardly trying to handle a drunk Mark. 

Renjun’s fingers clasp around the small, silver locket hanging from his neck, the metal cool against his fingertips. Almost absentmindedly, he tugs at the chain as he listens to Mark over the line, at how he keeps starting then stopping his sentence, like if he can’t figure out what to say. Renjun knows he should just trust him, he and Mark have been at each other’s sides for so long, they shouldn’t need words anymore. 

It was Mark that bought them the necklaces, because he’d always been so sentimental. “Couple necklaces for a couple of best friends,” he’d said as he clasped his one on and left Renjun to fend for himself. It hurts a little, knowing that there’s something that Mark is keeping from him now, but Renjun likes to think that he’ll tell him eventually.

“It’s complicated,” is Mark’s only response, and Renjun lets him leave it as that, at least for now. 

.

It’s going to be a long night. Renjun meets them both sitting at the bar, one hand each around their drinks and the other with their fingers loosely linked together and resting on the table. So much for impulse control. Renjun is five minutes early, and it makes him wonder how long the two of them have been there already, and if they’re even tipsy or not.

“Donghyuck,” Mark introduces him with a burning blush and almost embarrassed smile, eyes glittering under the colourful, flashing lights around them. The music is blaring, pounding in Renjun’s head as the irregular rhythm vibrates through his body. It’s early, only a little past nine, but the bar is already crowded with dancing patrons silhouetted in the partial darkness, and bodies stumbling to the counter, slurring out orders for drinks at droids that happily comply. Mark nudges Renjun from his thoughts, grinning mischievously and now utterly, completely drunk. His hair flops over his glasses and Renjun raises a hand to flatten it back, away from his face.

“Isn’t he cute?” Mark giggles, tilting his head to the side to let Renjun know he’s talking about Donghyuck. His voice is loud, almost shouting over the music, and Donghyuck doesn’t hear simply by virtue of him being even more drunk than Mark, attention undivided as he studies Mark’s pale hand in his own golden one as if it’s the most awe-inspiring thing he’s ever seen. Renjun nods in response, and well, he isn’t lying. 

Both Mark and Donghyuck wear their lab coats over t-shirts and jeans, and Renjun has the sinking realisation that Donghyuck might be another one of the scientists working on the disease. But his heart melts as he looks on as they mumble quietly to one another, voices so soft and jumbled that Renjun wonders how they’re even understanding each other. Mark’s face is tender, eyes soft and fond as he glances at Donghyuck, who only giggles and buries his face in Mark’s shoulder in response. 

They look cute together, and Renjun finds himself smiling at them, and the only reason he’s there ends up slipping unceremoniously out of his mind. 

.

Renjun leaves after he’s had only one drink. Somehow, in the short time he was focused on ordering, Donghyuck managed to drag Mark onto the dance floor, and that’s where Renjun finds them a couple minutes later, doing anything but dancing. Mark has Donghyuck pressed against the wall as they shamelessly and messily suck each other’s faces. It’s only then that Renjun remembers, through his clouded mind, that he’s supposed to be the one holding Mark back. 

He’s too tipsy to feel guilty; Renjun had always been a light-weight, and the single drink makes his insides buzz with pleasure. The air is hazy with smoke from the groups of people crowded into loose circles, passing the electric joint around. 

Despite all the advancement in the drug market - innovations like the range of tongue patches to cater to every emotion desired, and even a variety of smuggled drugs from other planets that were advertised as making the user ‘out-of-this-world high’, people still returned to the old-fashioned joint. Nothing could beat the feeling of inhaling the drugs, tracing the numb relief as it spreads all the way to your fingertips. 

Renjun almost walks over to ask them for a drag, the joint hanging tantalizingly from someone’s fingertips. It’s been _too long_ since he’s smoked, and he breathes out deeply, imagining the sensation. Imagining every single thought that haunts him just fading away into pleasure. Renjun swallows, and the lack of ashy smoke on his tongue is enough to shake him from his fantasy. Frantic, he glances automatically at the spot he last saw Mark and Donghyuck, the bare wall now standing out blaringly against the crowded room. Renjun’s heart skips a beat, but after a quick scan of the sea of faces, he has to resign himself to not finding them. They could be anywhere. 

So Renjun heads home, mind blissfully blank as the whirring of the tracks under his feet keep him company in the cold night. The hallways are dimmed, a gentle, orange light replacing the blinding white one that illuminates them during the day. Renjun doesn’t even take off his clothes before plopping himself onto his bed, and his eyes fall shut not so much as a second later. 

.

Renjun isn’t sure how much later it is when he wakes up, heart throbbing hard in his chest, vibrating through his body. All he sees is an image flashing behind his eyelids, blurred words racing across his vision, and his breathing doesn’t slow down. _No, no, no_ , he mumbles, and without even thinking, his fingers move of their own accord to scroll through the contacts list glinting off his wrist, stopping as his shaking finger finds the name he’s looking for.

_Na Jaemin_

He presses the call button. The ringtone is amplified in the silence, Renjun’s heavy breaths loud and echoing through the regular ringing. Jaemin picks up on the fifth ring, and Renjun’s heart speeds up impossibly faster hearing his voice, thick from sleep.

“Renjun?” he asks, and the word is laced with confusion and annoyance. He ignores it, it’s natural to be confused and annoyed if someone calls at three in the morning. Renjun is about to speak when he hears Jaemin’s voice, soft and gentle as he speaks to someone else off the call. 

“Go back to sleep, it’s nothing.” Shuffling fills the line, and the volume instantly lowers on the call in response, but a pounding headache is already building behind Renjun’s eyes. A door shuts, and Renjun nibbles on his lip, mind finally beginning to clear from his bleary state. Jaemin’s voice calls his name, a little muffled, and any trace of gentleness is gone. Renjun forces himself to focus on the reason he woke up. He steels his nerves, taking a deep breath before speaking. 

“I think something happened to your father.” Voice hesitant and worried. And Renjun can still see it, an image of the king lying on a bed, face ashen as the wound on his chest seeps blood onto his clean, white sheets, red tendrils snaking almost beautifully around his body. 

“What?” is Jaemin’s only response, but Renjun feels a surge of hope that his voice is tainted with more concern than annoyance this time. It’s only when Renjun tastes something metallic on his lips that he realises his nose is bleeding again, and a spell of dizziness makes him stumble as he stands, moving to get a tissue to hold against his nose. That’s the second time today, he notes with mild alarm. But that’s also the least of their problems right now. 

“This is going to sound stupid,” he starts, and Jaemin exhales sharply over the line, already losing patience. But Renjun can’t shake the feeling, the guilt. He knows it might have been almost impossible to figure out, but if he’d realised his dream of Taeil would have come true the last time, maybe they would have been able to save him. And the dumb article that he read through earlier said that the precognitive dreams would happen more frequently. So if Renjun had a nightmare about the king dying, doesn’t that mean it’s true? That it’s happening right now?

“I dreamt of Taeil, the night he died.” Jaemin becomes so silent over the call, Renjun wonders if he’s even breathing. But at least he knows that he has his full attention. He rests his knee on one of the chairs around his table, but he’s too anxious to sit comfortably. “It was the same image from the news articles, the one that the press took.” Jaemin is still almost painfully quiet, and Renjun continues speaking to fill the awkward, empty lull. 

“I just had a dream about the king, there was a wound on his chest and … I think he was dead.” Jaemin sucks in a breath then, and there’s a pause before he scoffs, _he laughs_ at Renjun. There’s a sinking feeling in Renjun’s chest, Jaemin doesn’t believe him. He has no right to be this insulted, they only had a proper conversation with one another for the first time a couple hours ago. 

But even if Jaemin doesn’t believe him, can’t he just check? Just in case it is real, just in case it is happening and the king is dying, wouldn’t it be better just to be sure? Renjun feels fucking stupid, because is he really asking Jaemin to believe he can see the future? Does _he_ really believe he can see the future?

“Are you some kind of fortune teller, Renjun?” Jaemin’s voice is amused, but Renjun can only hope is isn’t imagining the nervous tremor. “And besides, what do you want me to do about it? Call the security or something, instead.” He sounded almost as if he would end the call, and Renjun tries to stop him, words slipping out without a filter. But he’s desperate, heart begging for closure, and he can’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed at the way he pleads. He just needs to know if everything is okay. He just needs to understand what’s happening to him. 

“Please, Jaemin. Can’t we just check, please?”

“Renjun,” and he sounds so tired, so resigned, Renjun doesn’t know what to feel anymore. “I don’t even see my father, maybe once a month for the most.” Renjun files that information away, confused. They seem so close every time they appear on the nets, and then Renjun realises the problem. Why does he keep believing everything he sees from the media?

“Do you expect to just barge into his quarters and demand to see him? Because if that’s what you were planning, they’re not going to let you in.” Jaemin suddenly giggles over the line, and Renjun briefly wonders exactly how many shots of ecstasy he had after their meeting. He must be properly awake by now, and Renjun thinks back on his words.

“So there’s no way we can make sure the king is okay?” Renjun asks, nails scratching the surface of his table just to have something to do. Jaemin’s voice has a playful lilt when he finally speaks, almost whispering as if he’s telling a secret. 

“Well, maybe there is one way.” Jaemin giggles. 

. 

“You have a fucking teleporter? Jaemin, do you have any idea how expensive this is?” Renjun whispers as Jaemin holds up a little disc in the darkness of his room. He’s dumbfounded, speechless, because first of all, it’s illegal, and second, Renjun’s taxes have been going to fund the prince’s pointless shenanigans? 

To be honest, Renjun didn’t know what he’d been expecting when all Jaemin told him was he’d be in his room in two minutes. He thought he was exaggerating, and was about to say something about it, but Jaemin cut the call without even asking for his room number. He materialized from nothing in Renjun’s room exactly three minutes later, smirking down at Renjun’s shocked expression. 

He aches to run his fingers over it, the white metal glistening and humming gently in Jaemin’s hands. It must have cost a fortune, they’re imported from another planet after all; humans had never been able to accomplish such a technological feat. But still, depending on the model, each teleporter could only do between five and fifteen jumps before getting recharged, which cost almost as much as buying it in the first place. 

“Hey,” Jaemin mutters, shaking him from his thoughts, and grabbing onto his hand to press it against the cold, metal disc. “Let’s go.” And Jaemin had hidden it so well over the call, his voice even and unaffected, laughing and joking. But seeing him in person, Renjun feels his heart tighten in worry at how uneasy Jaemin looks. How he chews on his lower lip, how his eyes flit around Renjun’s room even as it disappears around them, surroundings melting into a pure, blinding white before slowly being rebuilt with dark, wooden walls and gold-lined columns and fittings. And at the very centre of the room, a bed.

Jaemin’s hand is still on his as the surroundings become clear, and Renjun can tell the exact moment that Jaemin realises that something is not right. His fingers tighten around Renjun’s, and the teleporter drops to the floor as Jaemin’s breathing picks up. Heavy, quick breaths echoing, and eyes frozen on the king-sized bed where his father lays, _blood draining from his body to stain the sheets._

Renjun’s knees buckle and he drops to the floor, mind a blurry haze as Jaemin leaves his side, throwing open the door and shouting for a doctor. There’s a guard standing outside, Renjun notes, and his foggy mind works to try to understand how someone could have gotten in and shot the king straight in his chest when there was a guard right outside. And then there are people rushing around him, but Renjun is too weak to move, barely registering as medical officers and droids race in, moving the king off the bed and onto a stretcher, and just as quickly, taking him from the room. 

The room clears around him, but Renjun remains, weight resting on his shaky legs as he slowly tries to stand. His head pounds, pain spreading from behind his eyes to shroud his entire skull. He feels nauseous, exhausted, confused. But his heart races, anxiety overflowing, and he needs to know if they managed to save the king. 

Because this time, his nightmare wasn’t an exact replica of the man that had lain before him, not two minutes ago. The king’s face wasn’t quite as pale, wasn’t quite as ashen as in Renjun’s dream. His stomach flips, and a burning cold sensation races through his veins, leaving him almost breathless. Because Renjun is so certain the king _wasn’t dead_ when they came into the room, but he was dead in his dream. 

Because even if Renjun can see the future, it’s pointless if he can do nothing to stop their destiny. This gift, this curse, whatever it is, it’s wasted if Renjun can’t do anything, if he’s just simply powerless. If the fates expect him to just sit back and watch, like it’s some kind of fucking joke. But if the king is alive, if he lives through this, everything changes. 

Because maybe, just maybe, they can prevent what he sees from happening. And maybe they could have saved Taeil, maybe they can save the king, and maybe they can change the future. Maybe they can play _a game with destiny_. 

And so he walks with slow, trembling footsteps, blearily following signs and stumbling along the still-dim corridors until finally, he falls into step at Jaemin’s side, where he looks on through a glass window as they operate on his father. His eyes are bloodshot red, and he doesn’t even try to wipe the tears as they slip down his cheeks. 

“They said he’ll be okay,” Jaemin mutters after a pause, voice barely above a whisper and so, _so_ weak. And Renjun wants to shout, he wants to fucking laugh and smile and cry, because the king will be _okay_. Because they saved him, he has to be okay. Renjun knows that anything can still happen, but maybe he just wants to believe that he made a difference. That he has some semblance of control, that he’s not as perfectly powerless and insignificant as he feels. 

His heart races in ecstasy, and he feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, but then his eyes focus on Jaemin, and he crumbles. Because Jaemin just lost Taeil, not even a day ago, and Renjun could only imagine how much that had affected him. Despite the show he put on, it was really almost too easy for Renjun to see right through Jaemin, right through his swollen, bright eyes, right through his trembling, playful voice, right through his raw, smirking lips and his broken, teasing words. 

Right through his imperfect, perfect facade. 

And so Renjun just drops his eyes as he reaches out for him, slotting their fingers together, gently, almost tenderly. Jaemin’s hand is warm, and he squeezes Renjun’s hand so hard that it’s almost painful. So Renjun squeezes back, and he hears Jaemin’s shaky breath, but as he looks on at his side, eyes trailed on the crowd of surgeons and droids, talking and calling silent orders to one another through the sound-proof glass, Renjun tells Jaemin that everything will be fine. 

They must stand there for hours; Renjun’s legs are numb and cramping, but he can’t bring himself to move a muscle until the very last surgeon has moved away from the king’s body, until the little numbers on the machines stop blinking with red, flashing lights, and until Jaemin finally breaths a deep sigh of relief. 

Renjun only realizes his fingers are still linked through Jaemin’s when he feels him tug on their joined hands, pulling him along insistently towards the exit. Renjun’s heart skips a beat and he wants to ask where he’s taking him and why they’re leaving his father after he’s just been shot, but Jaemin just gives his hand a little squeeze as the door shuts behind them, telling him _not yet._

Jaemin ends up pulling him into an empty room, just a little away from the medical bay. He struggles to keep up; Jaemin’s legs are longer than his and fierce determination has quickened his pace further. Renjun has to almost jog, but he doesn’t even think Jaemin notices. He doesn’t look back at him, but he also doesn’t loosen his death-grip on his hand.

The light switches on automatically when they enter, and Renjun pulls his hand from Jaemin’s without encountering any restraint, so he can move further into the room. The gentle chill makes him shiver a little in his thin shirt and jacket that he managed to throw on before they left his room. Renjun scans the area as he tries to force his pulse to slow down.

It’s a small space, a storage of sorts, with racks and shelves piled high with various medical supplies. Renjun tenses up as Jaemin scans his finger on the lock, sealing them in together and alone, back still turned to Renjun. Jaemin’s shoulders are drooped on both sides, hair messy and standing up awkwardly in places. Renjun’s eyes gloss over the fresh hickeys on the side of his neck and right under his ear as Jaemin’s hand falls from the lock to stay, clenched, at his side.

He hears Jaemin’s heavy breathing: shaky, deep inhales followed almost immediately by weak exhales. As if he’s too exhausted to finish. Renjun’s eyes trail over his form, picking up on how his clothes are thrown on haphazard with a dark t-shirt bunched awkwardly at the waistband of his jeans. It’s only then that Renjun realizes _just how long_ Jaemin’s day must have been. He suddenly doesn’t blame him for kicking him out a little after midday to have sex.

“Jaem-“ he starts, but Jaemin turns to him instead, eyes burning, dark and brooding with an emotion Renjun can’t place, bloodshot from crying, lips trembling and jaw clenched, tears streaking almost gracefully down his cheeks to drip off his chin, and then Jaemin is moving. It’s a few, short steps between them, but Jaemin doesn’t stop there, grabbing onto Renjun’s hip bone to push him backwards, until he feels his back pressing harshly against the cold wall behind him.

And even still, Jaemin pushes against him, trapping Renjun between himself and the wall, pressing their chests flat together, slipping his thigh between Renjun’s, digging his fingers almost painfully into his hips. Resting their foreheads together. Breaths mingling in the little space between them. Chests heaving and hearts pounding through the layers of clothes separating them. Eyelashes fluttering against Renjun’s cheekbones as Jaemin’s eyes slide shut. Renjun can’t breathe, he can’t think. His whole body is on fire, burning in every single place Jaemin’s skin touches his. It’s an electric, tingling sensation, and Renjun thinks he can get high off that feeling alone. Somehow, he finds his hands fisted in Jaemin’s shirt, almost tugging the soft material from his pants.

And when Jaemin tilts his head to the side, nose brushing so gently against Renjun’s, so tenderly, his eyes still closed and an almost serene look cast over his features, Renjun thinks for one single second that Jaemin is going to kiss him. And for that second, Renjun thinks that he’ll let him. But Jaemin’s lips don’t find his, instead his head tilts away until their cheeks are pressed together, until he ducks his head into the little nook between Renjun’s neck and shoulder and he stays there. Renjun releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. 

Despite the coolness seeping from the wall behind him, being completely enveloped by Jaemin makes Renjun feel warm. He raises a hand almost hesitantly to run his fingers through Jaemin’s dry, silver hair, and Jaemin hums in contentment, his throat vibrating against Renjun’s shoulder and sending shockwaves through his body. 

His heart is racing, and Renjun’s only consolation is that Jaemin’s heart pounds equally as fast against his chest. Renjun slips his other hand under Jaemin’s arm, resting it against his lower back to pull him impossibly closer as his fingertips trace patterns on his shirt. Jaemin’s usual cologne is missing, the gentle, almost flowery scent being replaced by something more raw, more real, and Renjun finds that he much prefers this change.

“Jaemin,” he mutters into his hair, and he continues even though he doesn’t respond, voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “You did well today.” Jaemin sucks in a big, shaky breath then, but he doesn’t move, and Renjun gets the feeling that he wants him to elaborate. Renjun obliges, leaning his head back against the wall to get more comfortable and he feels Jaemin shift closer as well.

His fingers continue tracing a gentle path through Jaemin’s hair as he speaks. “First, you were early to our meeting this morning.” Renjun smiles; he hadn’t even realised that until much later, and it feels almost as if that moment was an entire lifetime ago. “Then, Taeil.”

Renjun takes the time to choose his words very carefully, he knows this is a sensitive topic and he can already feel Jaemin’s muscles tensing against him. He takes a breath to steel his nerves. “I know how hard that must have been for you in that moment, but you handled the press and you still managed to take care of Taeil as well. He would have been proud of you, Jaemin.”

Renjun only realizes Jaemin is crying when his shoulders start to shake and tremble, and Renjun finds his coat wet and cold where his tears have fallen onto the material. But he continues, because this is something Jaemin needs to hear, and maybe it will be easier for him if he lets everything out. Renjun skips discussing their meeting with the residents of the 1900’s; that’s a conversation for another time. Besides, he’s still not quite sure what to make of the outcome.

“Thank you for trusting me about coming here tonight.” Renjun’s voice is tight, squeezing past the lump in his throat when he thinks about how they had found the king. How stoic Jaemin had been, how in control, how determined. How princely. And he thinks about how he’s breaking apart against him now, how weak and vulnerable it makes him seem. Renjun wonders for a brief moment who took care of Jaemin like this before he met him. He wonders if anyone did.

“And Jaemin,” he mumbles finally, thinking back on their argument earlier and regretting every single second of it. “About what I said earlier, I’m sorry. Honestly, I believe, with a little guidance, you will be a great king. A _good_ one.”

Renjun is almost surprised to find that he means it, but even after knowing him for a little while and hating him for most of it, Jaemin had proven to not be what Renjun had expected. 

Jaemin breaks down again.


	4. jaemin

Jaemin tries to ignore it. He tries to force the memory to the very back of his mind and bury it under mounds and mounds of anything else he can think of. But every single time his eyes meet Renjun's, sitting in the chair opposite him in the study, every time he hears him starting to speak, every awkward lull of their conversation, the memory forces itself to the forefront of his mind, fighting past every flimsy barrier he erected to keep it out. It dares him to ignore its presence, dares him to pretend that it never happened. 

Because maybe some part of Jaemin does want to think about it.

Think about the way he had trusted Renjun without a second thought, the way he had allowed Renjun to lead him into something so utterly ridiculous, so improbable, and the way their fears had turned into a reality. He thinks about the way Renjun had saved his father - there was no other way to put it. The king would be dead right now without his intervention, and that thought alone makes Jaemin's heart pound so loudly, the sound echoes in his ears. He’s _indebted_ to him, but Jaemin is at a loss of finding anything that he can do to make it up. 

And Jaemin thinks of the way he had held onto Renjun and cried, the way Renjun pulled him against his own body, the way his fingers had felt in his hair as he broke apart, the way he almost kissed him, the way they can't even look at each other anymore. 

So Jaemin clears his throat and speaks, the tension thickening the air finally getting the better of him. 

"Renjun." 

And he looks up, startled, and eyes wide, from where his attention was focused on some files or something he'd found in the library to look through. Jaemin doesn’t even know what they’re supposed to be doing today; he had simply gotten dressed and headed down to the study where Renjun was already waiting for him, because that’s what he’s always done. But Jaemin knows, with his father likely to remain warded in the hospital for a while again, the safe routine he’d accustomed himself to over the past couple years is undoubtedly going to get shaken up. 

Maybe it's just the bright light, or the overlapping shadows falling from the elegant chandelier, but Jaemin finds his thoughts hit an abrupt stop as their eyes meet across the table. Jaemin is _certain_ that Renjun's eyes had been a darker shade the day before. Maybe he's just wearing colored contacts, or maybe he decided to change things up a little. In any event, he still looks good.

Renjun's stylus knocks against his tablet screen absentmindedly as he loses his trail of thought, but their eyes remain locked together, they remain drawn to one another. It’s a tug, deep in the pit of Jaemin’s stomach, a burning warm sensation as it spreads, raising his pores and sending chills through his body. Jaemin doesn’t understand what’s happening, he doesn’t understand _why_ all of a sudden, Renjun’s presence is amplified, why every time he so much as sees him, his thoughts spiral out of control and his heart beats drum in his ears. 

Because Jaemin has no right to feel anything for the other boy; he has no right to want him. Not when he doesn’t have any right to his own heart. And especially not when Jaemin isn’t even sure he can _trust_ him. His mind is racing with questions, blurring together into a jumbled mess, and he can’t figure out where to begin. But Renjun is still waiting on him to say something, eyebrows arched and lips pursed together, so Jaemin just ends up blurting the first thing that wins the race to his tongue. 

"So you can see the future?" 

Jaemin can't help the sharpness in his voice, how the edge is dripping with disbelief and doubt. He'd seen it, after all, he'd been right there next to him as his visions had materialized into reality. But he can't bring himself to accept it. And maybe that wasn't the best place to start, because Renjun winces. But Jaemin had spent the entire night in sleepless silence just thinking about it, forcing his tired eyes awake just to try to understand what was happening to Renjun. If he was even telling him the truth. 

Because what is Jaemin supposed to believe? That Renjun can really see the future? How fucking _coincidental_ would that be? The very same day that his advisor died, he just happened to get a new one. The same day that his father was shot, Renjun just happened to see it in a dream and he just happened to be able to save him. Jaemin feels like he’s missing something, like there’s some nagging thought at the back of his mind, cackling away at his ignorance. 

Jaemin has always been a part of a bigger puzzle that he’s never been able to picture. He’s always been mindlessly controlled and used for his power, his money, his fame. A puppet on strings. He’s so fucking tired of being left in the dark, of being oblivious and just following along, blind to the real meaning behind what he’s doing. 

Maybe it’s time that Jaemin tries to figure out what the puzzle looks like. Because there’s no one he can trust anymore, not with Taeil gone. He’d been Jaemin’s entire life - his best friend, his father figure, his support, his guide. And now Jaemin just feels so lost, so confused, so helpless. He’s all on his _own_. Because everyone else always has hidden motives, selfish intentions tucked carefully behind their masks of kindness and concern. He can’t—he shouldn’t—trust anyone. 

But for some reason, he had trusted Renjun last night. 

He had held on to him and cried like a fucking baby, he had listened to his ridiculous tale and he had believed him, even before it had turned into a reality, and even before he had seen his father. And try as he might to will his mind to change, Jaemin still trusts him, he still feels comfortable around him. Renjun is nodding at him, eyes narrowing at Jaemin. Maybe he can pick up on his apprehension, his discounting thoughts, so Jaemin schools his expression into one of nonchalance in return.

"At least, _I think_ it’s seeing the future," Renjun mumbles, voice unsure. And of course he's unsure. Jaemin's mind storms with possibilities, raging and almost overwhelming him as he tries to find any other explanation. But it's wasted, after spending all night pondering over the exact same thing, he'd arrived at the same conclusion as Renjun. But are they really to believe that he can see the future?

Jaemin hears a little ding, and his heart speeds up impossibly faster. There's only two people he has notifications for, and one of them is the head of security. The other one - Jaemin shoves that thought to the very back of his mind, and this time he hopes it stays there. He doesn’t want to think about that with Renjun sitting right opposite him. 

It’s from the new head of security; the other one had lost his job following Taeil's murder. It's almost a pity; Jaemin had kind of liked him, but he was the closest person they could hold accountable for it, so he had to pay the price. The message is short, and Jaemin’s eyes gloss over it. He has to read it a second time for the words to click in his head, but when they do, blood screams in his ears and his mind races in confusion. 

_Your Highness and Advisor Huang. Please teleport to Medical Lab 27. Immediately._

“Jaemin,” Renjun’s voice calls, and when did he move to stand next to him? But he’s there at his side, eyes pointedly looking away from Jaemin’s arm and the message. It’s cute, the way he makes sure to avert his eyes and give Jaemin his privacy. But this isn’t just about him; it concerns the both of them, so he shows the other boy the screen, observing how his eyes widen a little as he scans over the words. Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, eyes lost deep in thought, Renjun turns on him.

“Isn’t the king supposed to be in Room 1?” he asks, echoing Jaemin’s thoughts. Renjun’s voice is edged with concern, and his fingers don’t stop fidgeting with the stylus that’s still in his hand. And that’s how Jaemin knows Renjun is thinking the same thing as he is. Did something happen to the king, that they had to move him to another room? Jaemin feels his heart squeezing in on itself, anxiety blurring his vision around the edges. Is his father okay?

They’d had to perform hours of operations the night before, droids and human surgeons working hand-in-hand tirelessly, trying to save the king. Metal replacing nerves, blood vessels and organs—his father could be considered a _cyborg_ now, even though they’d patched everything together seamlessly, the wound indistinguishable from the rest of his body. Jaemin is sure it would remain a secret, anyway. 

But still, his father had been shot with a light gun, straight through his heart. By all standards and expectations, he should have died. So even if they managed to save and stabilise him last night, it’s almost natural to expect some complications to arise, especially over the next couple of days.

But it just doesn’t make sense. 

If something went wrong, there’s no reason for the doctors to move him from a fully equipped care unit to another one. Unless Room 27 is also an operating theatre, and the king needed another surgery? And most confusing of all, why was his head of security messaging him about it? Shouldn’t it be the lead surgeon, or at least someone on the medical team?

Jaemin can’t make sense of it, but really, there’s only one way to find out. So he pulls his teleporter out of his bag, wincing as he notices the scrapes on the pristine white metal from where he had dropped it the night before. At least he had found it when he went looking for it, hours after his father had finally been deemed as stable. Jaemin was tired, delirious and harried, and he had cried in relief when he found the little disc lying right where he left it, with no jump capacity missing.

Jaemin pulls on Renjun’s hand, placing it on the metal disc so they can complete the jump together. His hand is cool, and his fingers slot perfectly around Jaemin’s, as if they’d been molded to fit right there. Jaemin’s heart races at the thought, but he forces the burning in his chest down. _Not now._

The hum of the cooling vents fades into numb static, prickling in Jaemin’s ears, then he hears voices echoing over one another, sounding distant and muffled. His feet sink from the plush carpet of the study to rest on a hard, sturdy floor, and all of a sudden, it’s like someone has pulled the cotton from his ears. The sounds of a conversation – an argument, rather – rush in, but the air freezes with a tense silence as he and Renjun materialize.

Jaemin’s eyes flit around the room, forehead creasing in bewilderment. Yet again, he’s feeling left behind, as if everyone is keeping some kind of secret from him. The room is not an operating room, and it doesn’t even seem like a hospital room at all judging by the lack of beds. Instead, the place is crowded with stark, white desks with chemicals strewn recklessly, tall stacks of books and tablets, and cupboards overflowing with a myriad of items Jaemin doesn’t even think he can name. An acidic smell wafts over, and the burning irritates his nose.

Two men stand behind one of the desks, heads bent over a rack of test tubes filled at different levels with colored liquids, their fingers twitching incessantly but not _doing_ anything. They must have been the ones arguing, judging by the tense lines of their shoulders and how their bodies move around one another, carefully avoiding even the barest of touches. Even in the bright light of the room, their faces are criss-crossed with shadows from the messy piles of supplies around them, and it’s only when Jaemin’s shaking legs carry him a little forward that he’s able to recognize one of them.

“Mark?” he hears himself asking, voice tight and hoarse with worry. And it shouldn’t be so easy, he isn’t even wearing his dumb glasses today. But Jaemin has sat through enough meetings with him to be able to recognize him, even if it’s just by his downturned lips and sharp cheekbones. Mark glances up at him after a pause, and Jaemin notes with rising panic that both he and the other man standing awkwardly at his side have a little chip pinned onto the collars of their lab coats, filling the air with a gentle buzzing.

And Jaemin sucks in a breath, because he _recognizes those_. They’re not popular, because they’re imported and fucking expensive, but obviously, as the prince, he has his own lying somewhere in his quarters. But Jaemin’s blood pounds in his ears as he tries to figure out exactly why they would be wearing them now.

“You know _Mark_?” Renjun interrupts his thoughts as he turns on him, forehead creased and lips pouting. Jaemin nods absently, almost discarding his words, but then his eyes flit between Mark and Renjun and something doesn’t add up. Jaemin’s mood sours and he feels his lips curling into a sneer.

“ _You_ know Mark?” Jaemin shoots back, because how could Renjun possibly know Mark? The only reason Jaemin knows him is because he’s the one in charge of developing the virus, and –

Wait. No, it can’t be. _Fuck, please, no._

But everything is suddenly falling into place, and Jaemin can’t keep up as his thoughts rage and storm through his mind, wreaking havoc on what little order and peace there was. His breaths are heavy, laboured, and it hurts his lungs to suck in such huge gasps of air. He feels his chest constricting, his mind clouded and his knees weak. He runs his hands through his hair, fingers tightening in the soft locks as he pulls sharply to stop the numbness spreading through him. To just feel something.

Because apparently, the reason he and Renjun are there has nothing to do with the king. Because Mark and the other guy are wearing little chips that create an invisible force field tight around their bodies, keeping everything out of their little bubble haven. Because Jaemin’s _head of security_ had been the one to contact him. Because Mark is in charge of the virus, and his face is so grim, eyes shrouded and puffy. It’s the first time Jaemin has ever seen him this serious. Because Mark’s fingers dig into one another, scraping and leaving red lines, and he only stops when the man standing next to him links their fingers together, but Mark pulls his hand away not a second later. It’s because Mark can’t hold Jaemin’s gaze, but most of all, it’s because Jaemin recognizes the emotion draining Mark’s face, and it’s name is guilt.

“Yes, yes. Everyone knows Mark,” the head of security calls as he walks to stand between the two groups, a fucking little chip blinking off his collar as well. Doyoung, Jaemin remembers is his name. His words are almost playful, but his voice is sharpened by an emotion Jaemin can’t seem to place. As Doyoung draws his eyes over them, Jaemin can’t help it as his stomach flips. He just wants him to say the words, he just needs him to explain what really happened and stop the anxiety and dread as they chill through his bones. Doyoung finally turns to Jaemin, sighing exhaustedly, almost resigned, before he delivers the fatal blow.

“There’s been an outbreak of the virus on Floor 1947.”

Jaemin’s mind stills; hearing the words of confirmation is enough to quieten the screaming thoughts, but Jaemin finds the silence that follows to be almost painful. 

“ _The_ virus?” Renjun asks from next to him a second later, sounding so weak and breathless that Jaemin wonders if he’s going to faint. But of course it’s _the_ virus, what other fucking virus would it be? This game Jaemin’s father had decided to play with nature, the fucking high he got off being able to control the elements and the people. It was only a matter of time before nature found a way, before destiny ran its due course and man was shown just how powerless he truly was. Because Jaemin had expected something like this; it was almost an inevitable reality that at some point, things wouldn’t go according to their perfect plan.

Because if the virus somehow got out, it’s still a mere prototype, a shell of the true strain, and capable of mutating and changing until no one is able to control it, entirely defeating the purpose of creating it in the first place. Because who knows how many people could be affected, how many people could lose their lives? Jaemin finds little solace in the idea of an antidote; yes, one exists, and he’s vaccinated with it. Everyone around him regularly is required to be, just in case some dumbfuck decided to do something like this and release it before it was ready.

But Jaemin isn’t sure how effective the antidote would be against any new strains that might develop, or how long that might even take. And besides, their current model of the antidote is ridiculously expensive; if there’s a massive outbreak, there’s no way that it can be controlled. They’re already overwhelmed with debt; fuck the metropolitan shuttles for being so fucking well off and charging them such fucking high interest rates on their loans. 

“Wait,” Renjun starts, finally starting to piece the puzzle together and sounding more and more certain as he speaks. “Floor 1947? Are they the people from the meeting yesterday?” The last part is barely a question, more a statement, but Renjun still raises his eyes to Doyoung who nods at him before speaking.

“This is just a little check-up to make sure you both are okay, because you were in direct contact with them. Since you’re vaccinated against it, there should be no problem.” Jaemin looks at him incredulously, eyebrows raised. No problem? No fucking problem? Jaemin wants to argue, he wants to shout at Doyoung to _do something, do anything,_ because there is a fucking problem and they can’t just sit and do nothing. He can’t just sit here, safe and sound, and ignore everyone else that’s suffering. 

But Jaemin reluctantly concedes to wordlessly slipping off his coat to hang it over the back of the chair and plopping onto the hard surface, the chill seeping through the thin material of his jeans. It doesn’t make sense to do anything until he can sneak out just a little more information from Doyoung about the virus. 

“Has anyone died?” is his first question, and undoubtedly the most important. 

Doyoung takes a while to answer, and Jaemin pulls up his shirt sleeve so that the guy can take a sample of his blood. The incision stings a little, and he sucks in a breath over the uncomfortable silence. Mark is doing the same to Renjun, and maybe Jaemin is just imagining things, but Mark is unnecessarily harsh; and the little sound Renjun lets out when Mark injects him makes Jaemin’s heart clench. The corners of Mark’s lips tip just the slightest bit up, and Jaemin is overcome with the sudden urge to hurt him. 

He’s saved by Doyoung, who’s finally finished scanning through his screen to have formulated an accurate enough answer to summarize the current situation for the residents of the 1900’s. 

“No one has died,” he starts, and relief warms through Jaemin’s body. “As yet,” Doyoung adds after a pause, and the relief vanishes almost instantaneously to be replaced by cold, harsh worry and fear. “Ten people were displaying symptoms as of half an hour ago; the predicted coughing, fainting, internal bleeding. Medical droids were contacted and were at the scene immediately. All the patients are now being cared for to the best of our ability in a makeshift centre on Floor 1947.” 

Doyoung pauses for him to take in the information, breathing deep and heavy as if he’d just run a marathon. Jaemin’s fingers twitch unconsciously, as he tries to understand everything. Ten people? At most, there had been about seven people at the meeting yesterday, but if there are ten suspected cases, that must mean that the virus has already begun to spread within the floor itself. Which is quite possibly one of the worst circumstances. And Doyoung mentioned they were being cared for on their floor; perhaps the security was planning to institute some sort of quarantine system to isolate the virus to that area? 

Jaemin is snapped out of his thoughts by a little hum close to his head. He’d been so lost in his own world that he’d completely forgotten someone was taking his blood, but it appears he’s finished - standing up straight from where he had been leaning over Jaemin, and moving away with a vial filled with the ruby red liquid. Jaemin feels a little light-headed just seeing it, so he turns his attention back to Doyoung. He’s about to ask another question, then the realization that _there are other people in the room besides the three of them_ shocks him to his senses. The information they had been discussing was classified; and he doesn’t even know the guy’s name who was listening in on everything. 

“We can talk here, right?” he whisper-shouts at Doyoung, and the guy just snorts loudly. So much for trying to be discreet. Doyoung nods at him tiredly, as if he can’t believe Jaemin is just asking that question. As if he can’t take him seriously. And Jaemin is overcome with an overwhelming wave of insecurity, because who is he to pretend to understand anything that’s going on? Who is he to pretend to have the situation under control, and to pretend to be able to do anything to resolve it in the first place? 

He swallows nervously, words losing strength on the tip of his tongue and retreating back down his throat. His cheeks burn with embarrassment, because is he really trying to do his job? Is _he_ really trying to be a prince? Maybe things would work out better if he just leaves everything to the directors. They always do, anyway. He drops his eyes from Doyoung’s, suddenly unable to hold his calculating, judgemental stare anymore.

But, by some stroke of luck - because Jaemin refuses to believe in coincidence, his eyes fall right to meet Renjun’s. For some reason, the other boy is already looking back at him, a faint smile ghosting over his lips, and eyes unbelievably tender and gentle. And Jaemin thinks that maybe the brown does suit him better. It’s just a hint of a movement, just the barest of nods, urging him on, but it sets Jaemin’s skin on fire as his pulse races under his skin. It’s nothing, really, but it means everything to Jaemin. Because Renjun is right there, next to him, at his side, supporting him, _believing in him,_ and it gives him the courage to find his voice again. 

“Are there any leads on how the virus got out?” Jaemin’s voice cracks as he forces the words out from where they fight to remain stuck in his chest, but he still feels a surge of pride that he managed to do at least one thing. 

“I contacted you as soon as I got the memo about the 1900’s,” Doyoung replies, voice tight. It takes Jaemin a couple seconds to understand the emotion in his eyes, but once he does, it seems almost painfully obvious. The way his teeth nibble on his lower lip, the way Doyoung’s eyes flit around the room, avoiding his own. He’s _scared,_ worried, about not knowing the answer to Jaemin’s question. “We searched through the footage for the last couple weeks, but we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

Jaemin’s mind swirls with beginnings of possibilities and fractions of thoughts. One of the scientists, perhaps, could have taken a sample and somehow released it? But they, more than anyone, would know better than that. And besides, Jaemin is pretty sure the residents hadn’t come in contact with any scientists during the meeting yesterday. Jaemin discounts the idea, but others rush in just as quickly to take its place. His head _pounds._

“I actually have a question as well,” Renjun pipes as he straightens his back in his chair to sit up. Jaemin tries to ignore the way Doyoung seems to hold Renjun in much higher esteem than him, visibly perking up at his advisor’s question and nodding eagerly at him to continue. “Have any of the reporters from the meeting yesterday been showing symptoms?” 

Doyoung’s face pales instantly, and Jaemin feels dread pooling in his gut. He had completely forgotten about them, and by the way Doyoung’s breathing has escalated, apparently so did he. Jaemin doesn’t know what to think. Questions and questions ricochet in his skull, but there’s not a single answer amidst the haze. Had the residents contracted the virus before they’d attended the meeting or after? How had it even gotten out in the first place, and why would anyone want to release a half-finished prototype? The very last thing that that would give is an advantage. 

“Hey, what’s that?” a voice calls him from his thoughts, and the worry in the tone makes Jaemin’s heart skip a beat. It’s the guy who had taken his blood, peering over Mark’s shoulder to glance at the screen that’s displaying their test results. Jaemin’s breathing stops as the white light glowing on Mark’s face disappears as he closes whatever document he was looking at. 

“That’s Renjun’s results, right? What does it mean?” And fuck. The words barely register in Jaemin’s mind before a mind-numbing static fills his ears, and a sharp, shooting pain scorches through his skull. He ends up stumbling forward, fingers clenching onto the desk where they stand, to keep his balance as his body trembles. 

“Mind your own fucking business, Donghyuck,” is Mark’s only response, and Jaemin feels this unidentifiable emotion raging through his body, igniting every atom of his being and making him burn with an emotion he can’t even seem to place. Because what if Renjun _isn’t okay?_ What is Jaemin supposed to do then? He glances up at Mark, through the strands of silver hair that fall over his vision, and he waits with burning eyes for him to elaborate. 

But Renjun speaks first, moving until he stands right at Jaemin’s side. His voice is strong, almost unaffected, but Jaemin can feel the little waver in his intonation as he says, “Don’t talk to him like that, Mark.”

“You-” Mark starts, voice trembling and eyes glistening as he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath before he starts again. “You fucking stay out of it. This is all your fault.”

Jaemin doesn’t even think before he’s jumping in, yelling, “Leave him alone!” at Mark, even though he has no idea what Mark is referring to, and what Renjun could have possibly done to make him this angry. Jaemin has known Mark for a while, and he’s always been an easy-going, reasonable man. It’s a stark contrast to seeing him now, and Jaemin can’t help but think that whatever is the reason that Mark is angry, it must have something to do with Donghyuck as well. 

Mark’s eyes jump between Jaemin and Renjun, and Jaemin’s heart sinks as he seems to piece together something, eyes widening in understanding and mouth falling open just the slightest bit. But then Mark is shaking his head, grunting in frustration, and sighing, loud and deep into the air. As if there are a thousand words spinning around in his mind, and he can’t decide on what to say first. Jaemin still wants to punch him. 

“Listen,” Mark finally says, voice raised and commanding as his eyes burn with anger. He measures his next words carefully, enunciating them slowly with just the right amount of forced politeness and civility. “I’m the one in charge of this shit, so if I say he’s fine, believe me he _is._ ” 

Mark’s breathing is ragged, but even though his words are directed at Donghyuck, his eyes pointedly remain focused forward, ignoring the other boy. Jaemin raises his eyes to his, and his heart aches with pity at the hurt that flashes across his features in the split second after Mark finishes speaking, only to be concealed a moment later by burning fury in return. 

But Mark isn’t finished speaking, his voice losing its hard edge as he continues, “Yes, I’m angry with Renjun right now, but trust me, the last thing I want is for him to get hurt.” Jaemin remembers how Renjun had grunted in pain when Mark injected him earlier and he itches to argue, but a part of him believes in Mark’s sincerity, if only because of the tear that slips down his cheek to be wiped up with his sleeve a millisecond later. 

It’s only then that Jaemin finds the strength to meet Renjun’s eyes, eyes that are focused on the edge of the desk as he runs his trembling fingers over the smooth surface. His tiny shoulders are slouched in, lips pouting, forehead creased in worry. His face is cast in shadow from bending forward, and the darkness only serves to accentuate the sharp line of his jaw, and the gentle slope of his nose. Jaemin wonders, how even like this, he can be so beautiful. 

Renjun swallows, and Jaemin knows that he feels his eyes on him, that he knows that Jaemin is worried about him. It’s almost painfully slow when Renjun finally lifts his eyes, tips his chin up gently, and turns his head to the side so their eyes can fall into place with one another. Renjun’s lower lip trembles just the slightest bit, and that’s when Jaemin realizes that he’s utterly fucked. 

.

Jaemin pulls Doyoung to the side before they leave, Renjun eyeing him curiously and a little worriedly as they walk away without a word. But this is something private, and even though he and Renjun have gotten almost scarily close after knowing one another only for a single day, this isn’t something he wants him to be there for. 

Because Jaemin knows that he isn’t a good person. And even though he doesn’t agree with most of the arrangements and decisions his father makes, he goes along with them without so much as a second thought. Because what else is he to do? When he was younger, he used to try to fight it, he used to try to speak his mind and make his own plans and laws. He used to believe that he could make a difference, he used to believe that he could _change the world_. But he had been so young then, and so utterly, entirely stupid. Naive. 

Because it was only later on that he realized that his father was not the hero he’d made him out to be. He wasn’t brave or strong or determined or important; he was barely a king. He was nothing but a _coward_ , he was nothing but a puppet on strings. He was nothing but an actor, and the entire colony was his stage. 

Scriptwriters, producers, the whole entourage—they made him into a celebrity. They made his position sensational, they made him into someone the people could look up to, simply because they were so desperate for a hero in a world that was falling apart at the seams. They needed someone to tell them it was okay, that everything would be alright, and the king could do nothing but play the part. And if his father - who he’d looked up to since before he could speak, if _he_ was so utterly powerless in the true face of politics, if he could do nothing but sit and watch as everything unfolded around him just as it was scripted to be, who was Jaemin to try to do anything more? 

Who was he to try to change the world?

But, Renjun. 

Renjun had walked straight into his life and just flipped everything upside down; he was so innocently oblivious, and so desperate to prove that he could mean something, that he could do something. That he could make a difference. That he mattered. It made Jaemin nostalgic for his younger self. 

But he and Renjun still managed to be inherently different. Because when Jaemin had finally understood the cruel, harsh reality of being a prince, he’d simply accepted it. He played his part and intoxicated himself until he couldn’t even feel the numb pain anymore. Because where he’d lost all faith, all willpower, and all strength, it only made Renjun stronger. It only made him want to work harder; it fueled his belief that something had to be done, and that he would be the one to do it. 

Jaemin thought he was idyllic, because, really, what was the point of believing? What was the point of hoping for a better tomorrow, what was the point of even trying to fight anything? It had always been like this; society had always been controlled by the rich and powerful, and no one has ever been able to do anything about it. 

But Renjun stirs something so deep in his soul. He’s challenged every single thing that Jaemin has been taught to believe, he fights with so much strength and so much _trust_ in himself and his abilities, he’s so confident that he can do something, that his purpose is to change the course of destiny. That he can rewrite the future, and bend it to his beliefs and desires. But he’s so altruistic, that Jaemin can’t bring himself to not believe in him too. Because if anyone deserves to have fate on their side, it’s someone with a heart of goodness like Huang Renjun. 

But even if Renjun makes Jaemin want to be better; it really doesn’t change anything. So when he pulls Doyoung into a side room, voice low and hardened with anger, and when he asks him through his clenched teeth, “Can my father’s shooting be related to Taeil’s murder?”, Jaemin doesn’t have a single good intention. And Renjun can’t be there, because even if Jaemin is practically powerless in his own colony, he can still pull enough strings in places better not thought about, to absolutely destroy anyone who dares to hurt his broken family. 

So it’s probably a good thing when Doyoung shakes his head, eyes clear and lips pursing together, as if he’s finally regained his footing, as if he’s almost comfortable with this topic.

“I don’t think they’re linked. We still haven’t identified the poison that killed Taeil,” he starts, and Jaemin sucks in an annoyed breath as he rolls his eyes. Doyoung is quick to explain his case, voice rising in pitch as his words speed up. “It’s not like anything we’ve seen before. I’m not certain if it’s foreign, but that could potentially mean that whoever killed Taeil has connections abroad.”

Jaemin chews on his lip. It’s a lot to digest, a lot to accept, that people hate the royal family enough to want to completely overthrow them, to rip apart their facade of order from the inside out. That people would turn to other shuttles for aid, that people have so little faith in how they run the colony. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but honestly, Jaemin doesn’t blame them. 

“But your father- the weapon was made here. The only way they could have gotten into his room, is by using a teleporter.” Jaemin nods, he’d figured that much when he’d seen the guard standing right outside, completely oblivious that his father had been shot while he was supposed to be in charge of his security. Doyoung continues, waving his arms animatedly to illustrate his point. 

“But the main difference is whoever killed Taeil was trying to be discrete about it, but whoever tried to kill the king used a teleporter. We’ve got a couple leads on some recent teleporter smuggling, given its illegal nature.” Doyoung lowers his voice then, so quiet that Jaemin has to lean in to be able to hear despite them being the only two people in the small, bare room. 

“Jaehyun purchased one last week, in fact.” 

Jaemin’s blood runs cold. 

Jaehyun? He’s one of the directors that ‘advise’ his father, for want of a better word. Jaemin’s head throbs from trying to connect all the dots together. But if Jaehyun is a director, wouldn’t he be happy with the way the colony is being run? They’re basically the ones in charge, anyway. Why would he need a teleporter? Why would he want to kill Jaemin’s father?

“I know this doesn’t necessarily mean that he hired a hitman to kill the king or something of that nature, but rest assured, Your Highness, we are still investigating it.” Jaemin knows the price of a teleporter, and he knows that no one short of a position in authority would be able to afford one. And if Jaehyun ordered one not so much as one a week ago, he must be the one responsible for the king’s attempted murder. Right? 

But Jaemin can’t be certain of anything, at least not yet, not now, when his mind is so clouded and bursting at the seams with information just spilling out. He swallows, and even through the pounding echoes ricocheting through his skull, he comes to a jarring realization. He’ll be seeing Jaehyun in only a couple minutes; Jaemin and Renjun have to take the king’s place in a meeting with the directors. It’s not Jaemin’s first time attending a meeting with them; he’d been allowed to sit in a couple times in the past, but this time, it’s without the safety net of his father, or even Taeil. 

Jaemin’s mind races thinking about Renjun, how he is certain the other boy wouldn’t keep his mouth shut if there was something he didn’t agree with. How he would make a scene and try to change the course of action, without even a shred of shame. How he would try to change the future. Jaemin smiles almost ruefully, but a cold dread builds in the pit of his stomach. 

He would need to remind Renjun just who they are up against, and just how important the roles the directors play behind the scenes are. How the colony wouldn’t even be able to function without their help, and how that makes sure they get anything they want. Jaemin would need to remind Renjun that they aren’t meant to have opinions, they are just meant to play a part; the last piece of the puzzle. And really, there’s only one place for it to go. Jaemin would need to remind Renjun that they are utterly powerless. 

.

“Your Highness,” and Jaemin feels his blood curl at the scorn in the director’s tone, as if saying the honorific left a sour taste on his tongue. “I know this meeting is supposed to concern Taeil’s murder, but we were hoping to discuss some other _recent developments_ that we have been hearing rumours about.” 

Jaemin seethes silently from his chair at the head of the table, Renjun right at his side. It’s not even five minutes into the meeting, but he already can’t wait for it to be over. The directors are being the passive-aggressive bitches he knows they are, and they’ve already insulted him and his father at least six times. But Jaemin can’t do anything, he’s just filling in his father’s position, a _regent_ , so he’s as powerless to their words as his father had been. 

“I was most devastated to hear about the attack on your father,” Jaehyun starts, voice laced with playfulness and mock concern. Jaemin clenches his jaws together in a feeble attempt to control his anger, and he only realizes his nails are ripping the skin of his palms when Renjun forcibly links their fingers under the table without a word. Jaemin’s breathing is heavy, controlled, and he tries to smother the flaring fury in his gut. 

Jaemin just looks at Jaehyun, at how his eyes are clear and bright and the corners of his lips pull into a smirk. And all Jaemin thinks is _no, it can’t be him._ He knows that the directors are cruel and inhumane, but there’s not a single sign of guilt threading through Jaehyun’s features. He can’t possibly be hiding something. Either he’s an amazing actor, or he simply wasn’t the one that organized the attack on the king. Jaemin had given Renjun a little heads up about Jaehyun as they headed to the meeting, just for him to keep an eye out on his behaviour to notice anything suspicious. Their eyes lock for a split second, and Renjun just shakes his head ever so slightly. He must be thinking the same thing. 

“Let’s hope that our little _prince regent_ can cooperate as well as his dad, right?” Lucas snickers, and others at the table join along, eyes boring into him. Jaemin wants to curl into a little ball and just cry. He feels so overwhelmed, this whole situation is entirely out of his capacity to deal with, and he just _can’t_. He can’t do this, he can’t do anything. 

The room is large—circular white walls, and high, vaulted ceiling with their table centred amidst framed portraits. It’s almost twice the size of Jaemin’s own quarters, but in that moment, he feels like the room is squeezing in on him, constricting his throat, forcing the air from his lungs until he can’t even breathe, pressing against his body until he can’t move, draining the blood until he can’t think, clouding his senses until he can’t hear and he can’t see. Until he’s completely, entirely powerless. 

Jaehyun’s voice is almost teasing when he finally says, “Now, let’s have a little chat about the virus.”


	5. renjun

“Jaemin, what the fuck-“

“Not now,” Jaemin cuts him across, voice sharp and edged with an air of finality. If Renjun could, he would scoff at him. 

“Not _here_ ,” he elaborates a second later, but while Renjun understands the sentiment, he can’t stop the words from squeezing at his throat, trying to escape to fill the tension between them. What the fuck was Jaemin thinking? How could he even consider agreeing to something so cruel, so utterly immoral and dishonest? 

Their shoes click on the smooth ground, echoing through the bright, white halls as they pick up the pace. The faces blur in the corridor around them—messy silhouettes of people Renjun doesn’t care to know. All he can focus on is the meeting that came to a jarring conclusion not five minutes ago, only after Jaemin had finally agreed to the directors’ plan. 

And Renjun had tried to stop him, his mind racing faster than his tongue, as he attempted to come up with an alternative. Because _anything_ would have been better than what they had agreed to. But as soon as he had opened his mouth to just say something, Jaemin had squeezed his hand under the table where their fingers were still linked together, shooting him a glare out of the corner of his eyes that sent a single, clear message: _don’t get involved_. 

Renjun had ripped his hand out of Jaemin’s death grip, but he reluctantly kept his mouth shut and teeth clenched as Jaemin played the role of the king—following along and molding his plans to fit exactly what the directors had already ordained them to be. And all Renjun can hope for now, is that Jaemin has some idea on how to make things right again. Everything seems to just be falling apart. 

As they finally come to a stop outside Jaemin’s door, their eyes meet for a split second as Jaemin unlocks it and Renjun’s heart sinks when he reads the emotion paling the other boy’s face. He’s just as worried as him, just as terrified, and just as lost. But Jaemin hadn’t even tried to suggest anything; he hadn’t even given the plan one moment’s consideration before accepting. Maybe if they had just spoken to one another, just talked through the possibilities and maybe if Jaemin had just listened to him, they wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.

Jaemin hasn’t even sealed the door behind him before Renjun finds himself shouting, pulse skyrocketing as his thoughts crash against one another. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” 

Jaemin’s back is still turned to him, but Renjun is too smart to be fooled into thinking his silence means compliance. Jaemin’s shoulders are tense, hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his body trembles just the slightest bit as he tries to restrain his emotions. But Renjun? He is so fucking done holding back—he relishes the anger as it courses through his veins. He allows himself to get entirely swept away in the sudden fit of rage as it overwhelms his senses. 

Because this time, there is not a single doubt that Jaemin deserves it. Renjun had tried to guide him. He had tried to help him put his life back together so he could be the prince that everyone thought he was—the prince that Renjun used to look up to. But Jaemin hadn’t tried to change anything on his own, and now they were just back where they started. 

“How could you agree to that? Jaemin, _why_?” 

Renjun’s voice fucking breaks. His heart aches, searing through his chest, as he tries to bring himself to understand how Jaemin could agree to pretend that there was no antidote to the virus. How he could agree to leaving the residents of the 1900’s to their own devices, quarantining the floors and completely cutting off ties, leaving only some emergency care droids with them. 

But for the two reporters who had shown symptoms, Jaemin had agreed to ward them in their medical labs—quarantined, but with access to high-end emergency care and services. Renjun felt sick to his stomach, because he had trusted Jaemin. Some part of him had believed in him, despite every atom in his body rebelling against him simply because he was the prince. Because Renjun knows better than anyone that nothing in the media is to be trusted. 

So the virus would be simply written off as coming from the immigrants—the first time their population would be formally recognized by the royal family, and they would be welcomed with lies and scandals. And it’s a simple trade really, for the reporters: the antidote in return for keeping their mouths shut about there being one. The royal family would provide them with everything they could need until the patients recovered, and they, in turn, wouldn’t speak a word of it to anyone. 

“Fuck you, Jaemin,” is all Renjun can manage to breathe out as burning tears prickle in his eyes. His voice shakes, so weak and tired, because what are they—no, what is _he_ going to do now? He might as well be all on his own. 

But it’s then that Jaemin finally turns around, eyes flashing and chest racking up and down as he says his part. 

“What was I supposed to fucking do? Renjun, _you tell me,_ what I could have done differently.” Renjun’s pulse stutters under his skin at the pain in his voice, at how he’s _begging_ him for an answer. Renjun almost feels sorry for him.

But maybe this was a long time coming. From the moment they’d met, it was nothing but fighting; fire and ice clashing, melting and burning one another until they couldn’t take it anymore. It was ripping each other apart from the inside out, caressing the pain away with gentle touches and kind words only to be at each other’s throats the very next moment, arguing over nothing and everything. 

Lately, they had been kinder—gentler—but Renjun was a fool to expect that to last. They were just building the tension, swinging back and forth from one extreme to the next, higher highs and lower lows; and this, right now, is their breaking point. 

So this time, it’s different. Jaemin’s words aren’t harsh, they aren’t shouted, they don’t tear him apart like they usually do. They’re soft, almost tender, jagged around the edges where his pain has made them rough. His eyes are bloodshot, tears pooling and beading onto his lashes; his jaw is clenched so tightly that Renjun thinks that it must hurt. 

It’s different, because this is Jaemin _giving up_ , and Renjun always knew he was going to be the one to break first. This is Jaemin begging for answers, this is Jaemin lost and hurting and so painfully bare in front of him. This is Jaemin looking at him with eyes bleeding desperation, exhaustion, but this time, Renjun doesn’t have any more answers to give him. 

“Answer me,” Jaemin croaks, but Renjun just looks at him, and maybe his heart breaks just the tiniest bit. “What else could I have done? We have _no money_ , Renjun. We have nothing, we’re barely supporting ourselves now, drowning in debt. We can’t afford to produce any more vaccines.”

And it’s true; and Renjun’s nails dig into the soft skin on his palm as he tries to keep himself together. And Jaemin just continues, voice so hoarse he can barely understand him, but he continues. 

“The reporters can pay, but we’re not some kind of fucking _charity_. We can’t just make vaccines and share them out like they’re candy.”

“Renjun,” and he laughs, just the barest sound, raw and aching. More a scoff than a laugh, but his chapped lips still pull into a smile anyway. “You tried, but you can’t fix this. The whole system is too fucked up. It’s not worth it.” 

And even as he says the wrong words, Renjun hears the ones he means to say. _You tried, but you can’t fix me. I’m too fucked up. I’m not worth it._

“So don’t look at me like that. Don’t judge me when _you_ can’t even come up with another way out.”

Renjun hates it; he hates how easily Jaemin gives in, how easily he lifts the burden right off his shoulders and places it square on Renjun’s own. He feels the weight resting, pressing down onto him, crushing him, sucking the breaths out of him until he’s gasping for air. It hurts, but Renjun knows, some part of him knows that this burden isn’t his. So he shouldn’t have to carry it. 

Renjun isn’t the prince, and he’ll be damned if he lets Jaemin get away so easily. So he just turns straight around and presses his palm against the door to open it, intent on leaving the room and heading back to his own. He refuses to stay with Jaemin like this, weak and useless and so _accepting_ of everything. And just as Renjun expected, Jaemin is at his side in a second, grabbing his hand away from the door as he looks at him incredulously. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” Sharp and strong, and Renjun’s lips pull into a smirk even as his heart throbs against his ribcage. “Talk to me after you pull yourself together.” But Jaemin’s grip only tightens on his forearm, fingers digging almost painfully into the soft flesh.

“Stay with me,” Jaemin breathes out.

Renjun’s stomach flips as his heart lurches in his chest. And it’s only then that Renjun realizes how close they’re standing; he can almost feel Jaemin’s body heat from where he’s pressed against the door, his warm breaths fanning over his face and tickling the tip of his nose. Jaemin’s eyes are wide, face cast in shadow as the light splashes against his back, lining his figure with silver. 

And Renjun wants to stay. The part of him that’s so weak for Jaemin and his eyes and his smile and his heart wants to stay; and he wants to hold Jaemin against his chest, he wants to run his fingers through the strands of his hair, he wants to take care of him and coddle him and promise him that everything will be okay.

But Renjun shoves that feeling down, he presses against it, smothers it until it’s backed into the furthest corner of his mind, and until he can force himself to shake off Jaemin’s hand and leave him with one final thought that Renjun would never have voiced if he’d been thinking straight. 

“Call your fuck buddy if you want someone to baby you, or just grow the fuck up. I’m _done_.”

.

It’s awkward between him and Mark, but it’s nothing that Renjun hadn’t expected when he’d messaged him out of the blue, just one word, really: _come._

And Mark had come, because of course he would. Because he and Renjun are too close and they know one another too well to let something so simple get between them and riddle holes in the sturdy shield of their friendship. Maybe they’re all each other has, and that makes them so desperate to not want to lose one another.

Or maybe Mark had come because Renjun needed him. Maybe he could read how badly he wanted someone safe and familiar, and Mark had always and would always be the one right at his side. 

They’d been friends for years; they’d grown up living on the same floor, attending the same classes; their parents had even been friends back when they’d lived on floors accommodating family units. It was more fate than anything else that they’d wound up living only a couple rooms from one another now.

It was always comfortable between them. Mark is his best friend, after all, and their personalities had molded against one another as they’d grown, to fill in the spaces where the other fell short to perfectly balance their imperfections. 

So it hurts, when Mark takes his first hesitant step into Renjun‘s room, tracing his eyes up and down his figure as if he’s looking at him for the first time; as if something had to be wrong with him for Renjun to reach out. 

And even still, it’s painfully awkward as they sit on Renjun’s bed with enough space between them for another person to squeeze in. Renjun feels his heart constricting; he just wants things to go back to the way they had always been. 

But Renjun knows Mark is mad at him, and in all fairness, he has every right to. Renjun had messed up the day before—he’d just left him after promising to be his impulse control at the bar. At that point, there probably wasn’t much Renjun could have done, but still, if his mind hadn’t been foggy with alcohol, he would never have fallen prey to the numbing relief that sleep would have brought, and he would never have headed back home before making sure everything was alright between Mark and Donghyuck.

But Renjun hadn’t been thinking straight, and when he lost sight of them, he’d just given up and left them to be. And there’s nothing he can do about it now except feel the guilt pooling in his stomach when he notices how Mark’s fingers fiddle with one another incessantly. How he isn’t even focusing on the hologram movie playing over their heads, projecting from their screens as the sound echoes through the room. How he keeps to himself, body curling in as he tries to make himself as small as possible, as if he wants to just disappear completely. 

So Renjun pauses the movie, sighing out loudly to fill the empty air once the noise halts. Mark drops his eyes instantly, nibbling on his lower lip as his hand rubs against the back of his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Renjun blurts, and Mark looks up, eyes widened in surprise. Because he knows Renjun better than anyone, and he knows just how much it hurts Renjun’s pride to apologize. The words hang in the air, waiting for Mark to grab them up or Renjun to take them back, and they remain in silence for one, two, three more seconds before Mark opens his mouth first. 

“It’s okay.” 

Running his fingers down his face, burying himself in his hands. Heavy breathing out, and Renjun thinks the shaky sound vibrates through his body, even with all the space between them. 

“It’s not okay,” he argues back, and he hears Mark start to argue, voice muffled from where his hands cover his face. It stops short as he realizes Renjun is right—that things are definitely not okay; and then Mark is lifting his face from his hands to speak again. 

“It’s not okay, but I forgive you.” 

Renjun’s heart stops the painful banging in his chest, and cool relief races through his veins at Mark’s words. It’s almost too sudden a change, and Renjun feels his breath being sucked out of him as his emotions flip almost entirely.

There’s a part of him that knows that he doesn’t deserve his forgiveness; Mark has always been too nice for his own good. But just this time, Renjun allows himself to take advantage of it, if only to quell the tension between them. He can’t stop his curiosity though, the aching need to know more about the first secret Mark has ever managed to keep from him, so he finds himself speaking before he can think better of it. 

“Can I ask why?” It’s hesitant, because he knows Mark wasn’t ready to tell him the last time he’d asked about why he couldn’t be with Donghyuck. The words are soft, whispered under his breath, but Renjun sees when Mark hears them and understands what he means, and his jaw clenches hard.

“Not yet. You’ll find out eventually,” Mark placates him, a small grin tilting his lips up as Renjun groans. It’s like Mark is purposely keeping this from him for no reason, dangling it just outside of his reach and looking on in enjoyment as he tries to figure it out. There’s just a little pain threaded through his words that makes Renjun stop nagging him; that makes him give in and just search for another topic. Mark will tell him when he’s ready.

“Renjun,” Mark calls him from his thoughts, and he hums in response, leaning back against the pillows and allowing his eyes to fall shut. The awkwardness between them is fading out, slowly being written over with familiarity and warmth. Because it’s the two of them, and like always, everything will be fine.

“Is there something going on with you and Jaemin?” 

Everything is not fine. Renjun’s heart stops, his eyes fly open, jaw dropping in surprise as he tries to come up with a response. Because out of all the things Mark could have said, Renjun was not expecting _that_.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Jaemin.” But it’s too quick and his voice is so weak that he doesn’t even believe himself, and Renjun knows that the damage is already done when Mark leans closer, eyebrows raised so high that they disappear under his black fringe.

“I would love for that to be true, but it’s kind of obvious from the way you two look at one another.” 

Mark sits up straight, crossing his legs under him as he turns to Renjun’s lying form. And it’s so much to unpack from just those couple words, Renjun doesn’t even know where to begin. 

Why would Mark not want him to have feelings for Jaemin? And what does he mean, _the way they look at one another._ Renjun’s heart unintentionally skips a beat thinking about Jaemin’s light brown eyes, the intensity of his stare, his dark eyebrows, his soft nose and his almost pouting lips, and _oh._ That’s what Mark meant. 

“I’m right, aren’t I? You like him?” 

Renjun doesn’t respond, but he knows it doesn’t matter anyway. Mark already knows the answer. 

“Listen to me,” Mark says so gently, barely above a whisper, as if he’s telling him some kind of secret. His voice is tender, and it reminds Renjun of the tone he uses with Jaemin sometimes. When he wants to calm him down, when he wants to take care of him and when he’s promising him everything will be okay when Renjun knows just how badly it’s actually falling apart. It reminds Renjun of the tone he uses when he’s hiding something, and really, he and Mark are too similar for either of their good. 

“Stay away from Jaemin.” 

Renjun wants to ask why, he wants to ask what Mark could possibly know that would be able to convince him to stop his pulse from racing every time he looks at the other boy. That would stop him from thinking about him every second that he’s not at his side; that would stop his skin from tingling and burning with electricity every time their fingers so much as brush against one another. 

Renjun knows that he hasn’t been familiar with Jaemin for very long, but even then, they’ve learnt to fall into step with one another like they’ve always been right there. Renjun feels some kind of connection with him—he knows it’s not a mere infatuation like when he was younger, but at the same time, he knows it isn’t _love_. 

It’s something gentler, something calmer, and something that could just burn so fiercely if given the chance. It’s something Renjun wants to take his time to explore, to learn more about. He wants to grow alongside Jaemin, and Renjun knows that he’s in it for the long haul as Jaemin’s advisor. They have all the time in the world to get to know one another, so they might as well take it slow.

“I’m not joking, Renjun. You’re only going to get hurt with him.” 

But Renjun isn’t even listening anymore, and when his eyes fall on Mark again, he just smiles so softly that Mark must know that he has no intention of giving in and doing what he asks. Mark’s eyebrows pull together as his forehead creases, and Renjun thinks for a moment that Mark is going to continue trying to convince him, but what comes out of his mouth is something else entirely. 

“When did your eyes get brown?” 

There’s something in Mark’s voice that Renjun can’t seem to understand—a tinge of worry and fear lying right beneath the confusion, as if he was too shocked to try to conceal it. Renjun blinks as he tries to figure out just how much to tell him, but this is _Mark_. 

More than anyone else, he has a right to know. 

Still, Renjun contemplates not telling him about his visions simply because Mark was hiding something from him too; but his need to hear the other boy’s view on the matter outweighs his spite by just the smallest margin. He and Mark have always loved discussions like this—random theories and seeming impossible occurrences and controversies. He pulls himself up to sit knee-to-knee with him as he feels excitement squeezing in his chest.

“I think I can see the future,” he blurts out, voice tight as he tries to discern Mark’s reaction. His eyes remain focused on the other boy’s face, observing carefully as the corners of his lips twitch up just the slightest bit, and Mark clenches his jaw to try to hold himself together. 

“I have many questions,” Mark starts, voice wavering as he tries to keep in his laughter. Renjun feels his heart sink a little, and cold regret makes his cheeks flush as he tries to keep his embarrassment down. He’d been so excited to tell him, but Mark is just _laughing_ at him. Renjun had expected him to be intrigued, or to match Renjun’s curiosity in trying to figure out what was happening. Anything but this. 

“But first, what could this possibly have to do with your eyes being brown?”

“Oh!” 

Renjun had completely forgotten about Mark’s initial question, too caught up in his mental debate as to whether he should tell him anything or not. 

“I read about it in an article I found on psychic abilities—”

And this time, Mark doesn’t even try to hold back his laughter, almost choking as he doubles over. Renjun knows it sounds stupid, if he was hearing it for the first time, he would probably be laughing too. But he’s overcome with the need to defend himself, to prove to Mark that he’s telling the truth and that he has to believe him. 

“I had visions about Taeil and the king dying.” That effectively shuts Mark up, and his eyes widen as his mouth falls open. Renjun can almost see the gears in his head turning, trying to figure out the implications of what he said.

“I dreamt of Taeil dying the morning he was found, and I had a dream about the king, so I told Jaemin and we managed to get there in time to save him.”

But the corners of Mark’s lips pull into a gentle smile again, and it’s less disbelieving and more playful this time. He drops his eyes from Renjun, chewing on his lower lip to keep his mouth shut and Renjun has the distinct feeling that Mark is keeping something from him. 

“What?” he asks, unable to stop the word from flying out as he tries to calm the anxiety raging in his stomach. What does Mark know that he doesn’t, and why is he not just telling him? 

“Nothing,” Mark mumbles, but he only grins wider as he ducks his head, almost pressing his chin against his chest to hide his face. “It’s just so weird seeing you like this.”

Renjun makes an incomprehensible noise of confusion, but it’s lost in Mark’s shouts of _shit, shit, shit, it’s a fucking video call,_ as the air fills with a soft dinging noise, prompting Mark to accept the call after straightening his hair and stumbling off the bed so the only background is one of Renjun’s plain, white walls. 

“Jaemin, is everything alright?” 

Renjun’s ears perk up at his words, and he plays absent-mindedly with the ring on his finger as he awaits the response from over the line. Mark’s screen is directly in front of him, but the side facing Renjun is blank while Mark must be able to see the prince from his point of view. 

“Mark, thank god,” Jaemin’s voice filters over the line, and Renjun’s stomach flips in response. Jaemin’s voice is breathy, and the worry laced through his words is almost enough to make Renjun regret leaving him earlier. 

“Meet us in Lab 27, same place as earlier, as quick as you can. We have another emergency.” 

Renjun’s blood runs cold under his skin, and he feels chills racing against his spine. _Fuck,_ he never should have left. Another emergency? His heart squeezes as he checks his own inbox, but it’s glaringly empty. Is Jaemin even going to let him know what’s going on? Is he going to ask him to come at all?

“And Mark,” Jaemin continues, voice just a little softer and hesitant. Renjun finds himself waiting with bated breath for his next statement. “You’re friends with Renjun, right?” His face burns, blush racing down his neck as his lips tug into a smile and he feels Mark’s eyes on him. His fingers fiddle with his ring as he focuses all his attention down to avoid his questioning stare, but Renjun’s smile fades almost instantly as his eyes fall on three little spots dotting his wrist bone.

He pulls the sleeve of his sweater a little higher, exposing the back of his forearm where three moles stare back at him, forming a little triangle together. But Renjun is _certain_ that they’d never been there before. His mind races, trying to figure out how long they’d been there, and if he just hadn’t noticed them before. Is this another side effect of the precognition? 

Hardly likely, but the entire thing is just so new to Renjun. And besides, what other explanation is there for the sudden change? Renjun is drawn back to the conversation when he hears his name, but he tucks the new development away in his mind to ponder over it later. 

“‘Do you think you can try to get Renjun to come with you?” Jaemin is asking, and Renjun raises his head to meet Mark’s eyes for a second before the other boy turns his attention back to the screen to give an answer, lips fighting to pull into a grin. 

“I believe I can, but why don’t you just ask him yourself?” And coming from anyone else, that would have been considered rude, but somehow Mark managed to make it a genuine question, punctuated with little snickers before and after as his eyes leave the screen every so often to meet Renjun’s over the top. 

“He’s mad at me.” 

Renjun shuts his eyes to stop the embarrassment coiling in his stomach, but he still hears Mark’s laugh loud and clear at Jaemin’s response. From Jaemin’s voice alone Renjun can tell he’s pouting, and his heart clenches so suddenly as he comes to a single realization. He fucking _misses_ Jaemin. 

“No problem, Jaem. I’ll get him to come. And I hope things get a little better between you two.” Renjun just hopes that the “me too” he hears before Mark cuts the line is part of his imagination, because he’s going to lose his fucking mind if it isn’t. 

“Shut up,” Renjun mumbles even before Mark can say anything, but the other boy only grins back at him in response. Renjun doesn’t miss the way Mark’s eyes are tinged with just the softest hint of pain, but, even if it’s just for now, he chooses to ignore it. 

.

Well, fuck. 

Renjun’s mind is blissfully blank for exactly two seconds before a barrage of thoughts descends onto his brain, clamoring and fighting for his attention. 

“But I don’t understand,” Mark is saying, running his fingers through his hair as his voice fills with desperation. Renjun can see the beginnings of tears shining in his eyes, and his heart throbs against his chest when he thinks about the guilt that must be weighing down Mark’s shoulders. He’s the one that developed the virus after all. 

“ _How_ can the antidote not work? How could they just die?” Three deaths, and one more person warded in critical care. And of those, two were reporters who had been given the antidote. Safe to say, they weren’t keeping their mouths shut anymore, and the news sites were an absolute mess of contradicting information about the source of the virus and the supposed antidote. 

“But Mark, there’s something I was confused about,” Doyoung interrupts, ignoring his question in favour of asking another. It’s not like he has an answer anyway. 

Renjun’s eyes fall on Jaemin instead, who sits right at his side but has pointedly avoided his eyes ever since he and Mark had walked in about five minutes ago. Jaemin doesn’t even seem to be paying any attention to the conversation; instead he’s engrossed in playing with his fingers—poking and prodding his own hands like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. 

Renjun sighs, and he knows that the only explanation for his behaviour is that he overdosed himself on ecstasy again after Renjun had left him earlier. He’s like a child, grunting lightly and humming as his lips twist into a proud smile when he manages to fold his index finger over his middle one. Renjun just turns his attention back to Mark, Donghyuck and Doyoung, and he lets Jaemin take his hand when he feels his warm fingers tugging at his wrists, intent on trying to figure out if he can fold Renjun’s fingers like his own. 

“Is the virus supposed to give skin blisters? Because I noticed that on a couple of the patient profiles, but if I remember correctly, that wasn’t included in the symptoms we had agreed on.” 

Mark’s eyes widen as Doyoung’s words, and his mouth hangs open as Renjun sees his mind working a mile a minute to catch up. His eyes flit around the room, but Renjun can tell his mind is somewhere else entirely, processing all the information being given to him. Renjun himself has no idea of the exact symptoms of the virus, but could this mean that it’s already started mutating if people are developing symptoms that they weren’t supposed to? Does this mean that they have to start working on a new antidote amidst everything? 

“Mark, what is it?” Donghyuck prods from his side, voice tense and eyes never leaving Mark’s own as the other boy slowly brings his own gaze up to meet him. And Renjun sees the sudden fear in Mark’s eyes; he can do nothing but look on as Mark’s lower lip trembles, as his fingers shake from where they peep out under the long sleeves of his lab coat. 

Whatever it is that Donghyuck is seeing in him, Renjun is painfully unaware, and his cheeks burn under the intensity of the look they share with one another. Renjun almost considers dropping his eyes to give them some space, because he feels like he’s intruding on a private moment, but when Donghyuck steps one inch closer to Mark, the other boy grabs his wrist to keep him at a distance. 

“I think I know.. I think I know how to fix the antidote.”

And it’s so sudden, so entirely unexpected, that it takes Renjun a couple seconds before he understands the gravity behind Mark’s words. But before anyone can even begin to formulate a question, Mark is dropping his hand from Donghyuck’s and rubbing it over the back of his neck instead, muttering to himself as he turns right on his heel and heads for the door. 

Just as he presses his palm to the door, Mark whips his head back towards them, eyes wide and frantic as he shouts, “Don’t give anyone who already has the virus that antidote, it’ll kill them. I’ll work on fixing it, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_.” And his voice breaks as his figure disappears through the open door, and Renjun just wants to follow right behind him and help him in any way he can. 

But Renjun’s duties at present lie with one very inebriated and incapable Na Jaemin, so all he can do is look on and hope that Mark manages to fix everything soon, if only to ease his guilt. 

“What—fucking wait up, Mark!” Donghyuck calls as he runs to catch up, leaving behind two very confused people and Jaemin, in silence. Renjun tries very hard not to think about the way Jaemin is still playing with his fingers, but Jaemin figured out how to fold them over one another so long ago. Now his attention is focused on slotting their fingers together, of comparing Renjun’s hand size against his, trailing his warmth down the back of Renjun’s hand. 

He stops short, and Renjun looks down to see him drawing his eyes over the back of Renjun’s wrist, where his three moles contrast sharply against his pale skin. Jaemin presses his fingers to them gently, just a whisper of a touch, and Renjun’s stomach flips. Is this his first time noticing them too? Then it can’t simply be that Renjun was ignorant of his own self; they must really be new. 

Doyoung clears his throat loudly, and Renjun pulls his hand automatically from the prince’s grasp, ignoring the way Jaemin grunts as he drops his head to rest on the table instead. There’s a sharp _thud_ as his head connects with the hard surface, but Renjun leaves him be. 

“Renjun, I’m sorry to ask you to take care of him, but I should be getting back.” Renjun only nods in response; it’s nothing like he expected when he had initially applied for position as an advisor, but he’s slowly and admittedly reluctantly growing to be accustomed to it. Doyoung gives him a small smile as he walks out, not before giving Jaemin a disdainful once-over that makes Renjun’s heart clench with unfounded protectiveness for the other boy. 

And then it’s just the two of them, and Renjun sighs loud and heavy into the air as Jaemin starts to snore. 

.

Waking Jaemin up is the hard part, but getting him to his room and pulling him to sit on the couch is thankfully one of the simpler things Renjun has had to do as Jaemin’s advisor. And that’s saying _a lot._

It’s already past five in the evening; somehow Renjun finds his days so easily just slipping away from him recently. It’s almost impossible for him to wrap his head around the fact that it was just yesterday that he first became advisor; just yesterday that Taeil died; and only that morning that he’d dreamt of the king dying and rushed to save him. And if it’s this stressful for _him_ , Renjun can only imagine how everything has affected Jaemin. 

So he stays close to him, bones cracking as he stoops in front of him and raises his neck so he can meet Jaemin’s eyes. He’s sitting like a child, like someone who’s just been punished with the way he’s curled into himself, his legs pulled close together, head bent forward and hands clasped tight and resting in his lap. 

Renjun just hopes that he hasn’t fallen asleep again, but it’s almost like Jaemin has heard his thoughts and his eyes slide open to meet Renjun’s in response. And Jaemin is fucking pouting as he stares back at him, and are those _tears_ glistening in his eyes? Renjun’s heart skips under his skin, he must be going crazy. 

“Are you still mad at me?” 

Jaemin’s voice is so small, so weak, so defeated, that the sound of it makes Renjun think back on that morning with concern. Had he been too harsh with him? Maybe if Renjun had held his temper, they could have had a civil conversation and things would be a little better between them. But Renjun can’t find it in himself to regret his outburst; and besides, it’s not like Jaemin hadn’t had his say as well. 

“I’m not mad at you,” is all Renjun can reply, voice firm despite his heart absolutely melting at Jaemin’s large eyes. He lifts his hand to tuck his fingers under the curve of Jaemin’s hand, and the boy grabs on tight as he speaks again, voice trembling.

“Do you have any idea how sad I had to be to take ten doses of ecstasy and still not be happy?” 

And _fuck._ Renjun’s brain goes into overdrive, his pulse throbbing against his wrist as harsh guilt sours in his throat. Jaemin’s voice is slowly getting sharper, and his eyes have a burning flame flickering deep in them, but Renjun knows that even if he’s sobering up, his mind must still be muddled enough to have so little control over what he says. 

“Jaemin-” 

“No, I understand. You’re right, Renjun.” And he just sounds so tired that it hurts Renjun even worse than that morning. He sounds absolutely broken, as if he’s given up every single bit of hope. But Renjun doesn’t know what to do anymore. He thought it would help; pushing him and leaving on his own to figure out what he wanted. But Jaemin just seems even more lost than before. So Renjun just keeps running his thumb over the back of Jaemin’s hand, and he listens to him as he speaks and as his voice hardens and molds itself into the one he’s more familiar with. 

“I gave up, and I probably shouldn’t have, but I didn’t know what else to do. Still,” and Jaemin blushes then, the gentle red racing down the collar of his shirt and dusting his cheeks pink. But he scoffs at himself, a harsh laugh filling the air, and Renjun’s heart clenches and his breaths squeeze in his chest as he says the next words.

“I thought when you said you believed in me that you meant it. When you said I’d be a good king, I thought that meant you trusted me. I was fucking stupid to believe it—why would anyone believe in me? I don’t even fucking—I can’t do anything.”

And Jaemin’s grip on his hand tightens suddenly, squeezing their intertwined fingers as he sucks in a breath, loud and stretching to fill the silence between them. Renjun is speechless, voice stolen by Jaemin’s words, by his pain and doubt, and for once, there’s nothing he can say in return. 

Because that’s not what Renjun meant, this isn’t what he wanted to happen, _fuck_ he never meant for Jaemin to think like this because of their arguement. He never meant for any of this to happen. And finally, the regret comes like a wave—harsh and sudden and obliterating everything in its path. It washes over Renjun, crashes against him and sucks the air from him until he can’t even breathe. 

And then Jaemin is pulling his hand out of Renjun’s grip and sitting up straight, shaking his head and blinking repeatedly as if he’s coming out of some kind of a trance. Renjun just feels everything around him crumbling, everything he’s tried to build with Jaemin, everything he’s tried to fix. It _hurts_ as he feels tension building between them instead, but he doesn’t know what to do to fix it. 

For the first time, he’s the one that’s lost and confused, and he can do nothing but listen as Jaemin mumbles under his breath, “Just leave, Renjun. Just get out.” Jaemin doesn’t even meet his eyes—he’s focused on picking at his nails instead, but his voice wavers ever so lightly when he speaks. 

So Renjun pushes himself off the floor, a dull throbbing spreading at his knees from where they were pressed against the ground. But even though Jaemin is angry with him, even if Renjun feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and his heart begs him to _just leave_ , he can’t bring himself to walk through the door.

Because he knows that Jaemin hasn’t eaten since an early lunch that he barely picked at, and he knows that if he leaves him now, he’d never bring himself to order anything. And so Renjun finds himself typing in an order for Jaemin’s personal chef; he has no idea what the other boy likes, so he tells her to simply make something that the prince usually orders.

And when he’s done, he wanders around Jaemin’s quarters, no longer interested in drawing his eyes over the intricate, expensive furnishings and instead entirely focused on finding the bathroom. It takes a while before he chooses the right door, and he lets out a relieved breath as he enters and gets started on filling the tub.

The food has already arrived by the time he gets back, but Jaemin is still curled onto the couch despite the comforting smell of the soup wafting around the room. Renjun wants to sigh, but he forces himself to be patient, instead walking a little closer and inhaling deeply to steel his nerves before he speaks.

“Jaemin, there’s food here. I made a bath and put on the heater for after you eat.”

Jaemin ignores him, but Renjun hadn’t expected him to respond in the first place. It’s still painful between them, but right now, Renjun can’t bring himself to apologize. Besides, he doesn’t think Jaemin is in the mood to hear anything either. So Renjun just allows himself a single moment more as he stares at the back of Jaemin’s head peeking over the couch, pretending to fiddle with his clothes and his bag. 

Jaemin’s silver hair is messy, strands overlapping and sticking up and all Renjun wants to do is run his fingers through them. But then the moment is up, and he has no reason to justify his presence there anymore, especially after Jaemin had asked him to leave so long ago. The dull throbbing of Renjun’s heart against his chest doesn’t stop, not even after he makes his way back to his room and he curls himself onto his bed, mind wandering as he tries to lose himself in thought. 

But all he can think of is Jaemin.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really sorry about the long wait for this chapter, i was kinda burned out from it and needed a little break  
> also, we finally reached the halfway mark hehe ^-^  
> i hope you enjoyed it! <3
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/mint_choco_17)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/mint_choco_icecream)


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